


Last Shift

by CharlieMcarthy



Series: The (K)night Guard [6]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Freddy is tired and ready for Retirement Mike, Horror, Love, Mike also adopts anyone who he thinks needs it, Mike learns to accept things wether he likes it or not, Pizzeria simulator, Spooky, Suits, The Bite of 87, fnaf6, friendship sometimes conquers all, knight guard au, partners, the one where secrets are kept, the puppet is still pulling strings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieMcarthy/pseuds/CharlieMcarthy
Summary: FazCo moves Mike Schmidt into an exciting but shrouded budding restaurant. Management seems a little distracted, the gang is being replaced, and there’s something eerily familiar about the animatronic named Lefty. Worst of all, a few old faces are coming back to make this job Mike’s last. [After Finding Freddy] [FNAF6]
Series: The (K)night Guard [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/359984
Comments: 37
Kudos: 63





	1. Like It or Not

**Author's Note:**

> Last Shift is based off FNAF6: Pizzeria Simulator, and that was arguably one of my favorite games next to FNAF2. I’m VERY excited to tell this story, and coincidently, wrap up some loose ends from Finding Freddy. Please enjoy the “most-likely-last-in-the-series” of the knight guard au. Just covering my bases, because I swear to god Scott. Killing me.   
> Obviously the previous 4 works are required to know most things mentioned in this story. However, Another Five Nights, the series of one shots, will fill in some blanks too. I’m particularly proud of Autobiography of a Foxy, in chapter 4.

_“Welcome to the show, and like it or not  
It's time to play a game…Let's play a game…”-Dawko & CG5  
_

* * *

**ACT I  
Chapter 1. Like It or Not **

It was a very small restaurant, and it had been closed down for years.

Despite this, and despite the cracked pavement and the unkempt shrubbery and the strange sour wind that blew sometimes, the little restaurant high upon the hill was aglow with lights more nights than it wasn’t. It was late, deep fall, with winter creeping her brittle limbs round the corner, and it was downright chilly. The trees that crowded the exterior had not ventured much closer over the years, either due to their small size or lack of willingness—not much grew well where the dead roamed, after all. The forest’s edge remained high and thin, more junk than substance. The neon sign was light up, and the ‘S’ in Freddy’s had finally gone out, and could no longer muster even a flicker. But most of the sign was still decipherable, even from a distance. A half moon watched from the deep west in the dark night with slanted disinterest, but soon it would be gone, for there was a streak of orange in the east. Thing were, for all intense purposes, back to normal. Well, as normal as a place that was old and haunted as Freddy’s could get, anyway. 

Yes, the _restaurant_ was closed. But the _building_ was not.

The building, what made Freddy’s, _Freddy’s_ was still in use, and in use it would stay until children stopped having birthday parties. As you know, all children must grow up (save for one of course, but he has gone to bed already, and taken his Toy with him) but then, there are new children coming along every day, which is something Freddy and his friends are always thankful for. And so there would be new birthday parties. And so Freddy and his friends would still be needed, at least for as long as they could function on the borrowed (stolen) parts from Circus Baby’s Pizza World.

Mike Schmidt woke to the sound of his alarm, forcing open bleary blue and yellow eyes to squint tiredly at the number. 5-freaking-am. Bright and early. He smacked the off button and sighed, trying to stretch.

This was no easy feat, but then neither was sleeping under twenty-something feet of mechanical fox, who was a bed hog even when she tried very hard not to be. The night guard snorted to himself and tried to pull free a leg. Mixed results. He wriggled harder until he heard her whurr softly in response to his squirming.

“G’mornin, Ms Foxy.” Mike cooed, chuckling when Mangle whined her displeasure at the hour and shoved both her heads under his now free pillow. He laughed, poking and prodding until the slender cage of metal parts above his comforter lifted and exposed him. He wasn’t sure why Mangle liked sleeping atop him, other than maybe she just felt better resting with someone who was so much smaller than her, or that she knew Mike would look out for her, and so she felt safe. Her charger was most of Mike’s nightstand, but she hadn’t used it last night it seemed. He had fallen asleep alone if he recalled correctly, his current issue of _Screws, Bolts and Hairpins_ across his chest as he snored at the ceiling. She had clearly snuck in during the night, tucked him in and then coiled over and around his frame and settled into drowsy patience. Eh, he didn’t mind. Mangle was Retired, much like Foxy was when he wanted to be, and so Mike gave her the run of the joint, including his room. Besides, unless she was chasing mice, she was neat and well-behaved enough to be allowed such freedom.

He yawned, rolled over on the small mattress, forgetting where he was on the little twin and, with a too late snort of surprise, landed face down on the floor in a mess of his comforter and his limbs. He groaned, and coughed against the ice-cold tile and moaned as he heard the door open. Yeah, that thud probably _was_ worrying…

“Oh, com’in—Ughh,“ Mike shoved himself up and leaned on a bony elbow, palm holding his face as he waited with a bitter look. The floor quivered to his left, and Mike glanced over to the doorway as a massive figure crossed over it, nearly blocking out the overhead that had been flicked on. Said figure stalked inside and navigated around the piles of papers and projects that was Mike’s little mess of a room.

“Mornin’ big guy.” Mike yawned lazily, lying there on his stomach as he waited. Wouldn’t make much sense to move—yep, up he went. His collar was gripped tight by a big brown paw and he was lifted up so he could curl his legs under his frame and stand. He tossed the comforter over Mangle more and smiled when she purred. Mangle liked dark places to hide.

“S’early, son.” Freddy Fazbear accused, curiosity lacing his deep tenor. He dusted the young man off with a gentle paw and snorted when Mike shooed and tried to escape his fussing. What did it matter if his clothes were wrinkled?

That was why he was sleeping in the pizzeria in the first place, after all. It was closed down.

Well, mostly. Mike was still renting out the dining hall for some cash, and hauling the gang and the supplies to birthday parties at parent’s homes or bowling alleys, and surprisingly that earned them quite a bit. Enough to keep coasting, anyway.

But the building itself—yeah. closed. Vacated. Thankfully not condemned, even if it was getting bigger by the day. Or so it felt like to Mike.

Or maybe Freddy and his friends were finally slowing down, and just not able to take care of it as well. Mike didn’t like to think about that, and anyway, he could keep the lights on and the electricity powering his friends—his family—for a little while longer, couldn’t he? He had to. He was their night guard.

Mike shot Freddy a sheepish grin.

“Got some errands today, Freddy. Nothing major, but I want an early start.”

“Oh? Where ya runnin’ off to, then, before even the birds have bothered to start their morning racket?” Fazbear demanded in his no-nonsense tone that warned Mike he smelled something he didn’t like. Mike tried for innocent, which usually had mixed results when it came to his best friend, but, hey. Mike Schmidt was nothing if not clever. And stubborn.

“To be fair, I hear Bonnie playing _Foreigner_ over in the arcade, that’s kind of the same thing—“

On cue, there was a grumpy growl from a salty seadog, who was stalking down the hall toward Mike’s repurposed bedroom.

“Turn that noise down, varmit!”Foxy shouted irritably in the direction of the arcade room.

_“It’s a classic man!”_ Bonnie whined back immediately, his voice more distant.

Mike laughed as Foxy came storming into the Prize Room—er, Mike’s room. Bedroom.

“’Classics’ me hook! Blasted bunny, playing that rock-crap,” Foxy grumbled to himself, “A sea shanty be a _classic,_ even Alex knew that, but no, we have’ta play that jarring malarkey before the damn sun is over the waves…”

“Good morning to you too, Captain.” Mike saluted playfully, moving out of the fox’s way, since he knew where the big old pirate was headed.

“Aye, lad.” Foxy seemed to notice something off and his ears twitched upward even as he beelined for Mike’s not-abandoned but still warm bed “Early fer you, ain’t it boyo? ….budge up there, darlin’, ye be much bigger than ole’Foxy.”

For Foxy, Mangle roused brightly, chirping merrily when she saw her Captain. Mike had never found direct coding in either of them that linked Mangle to Foxy, but she adored him nevertheless. It was cute as hell, especially when Mike found them napping together. His bed was just one of their many napping spots when it was a lazy day for the restaurant. 

“Why’s everyone so suspicious?” Mike demanded, trying to hide his pout as he quickly grabbed a fresh shirt from a trunk by his bed and buttoned it up. He groped for his jeans and hummed when Freddy shoved them into his hands, tugging them over his boxers. Foxy, as he often did, clambered atop Mike’s little twin mattress that was shoved in the back corner of the Prize Room, just under the window, and collapsed in a content heap among the blankets and pillow and Mangle. Foxy did this a lot, he said it felt good on his joints and sometimes it didn’t matter if Mike was out of the bed or not. If he wasn’t, then Mike tended to have a lie in and lay around, reading on his phone with one hand on Foxy’s big muzzle as the tired animatronic dozed, most of his frame flopped over the skinny young guy. Mike was not just clever, but surprisingly sturdy. Which was good, since he tended to play and wrestle with things nearly three times his weight and certainly taller than even him.

“S’not like you matey, that’s all.” Foxy remarked with a yawn of big, wide jaws. Some of his back teeth had fallen out a year ago, but that didn’t seem to bother the old pirate. “And you know us. We Fazes are used to routine, and we don’t like when it’s broken. Could mean trouble on the horizon.”

“There’s nothing wrong, Foxy, I promise.” Mike tossed a spare blanket over the lazy fox and smiled when he was given a growl of approval and warmth. He turned to Freddy, about to ask if Freddy had seen his boots when they were held before him.

Mike’s sheepish grin blossomed and Freddy only snorted, eyeing him with that sharp, critical stare he had.

“Come get breakfast with me, big guy?” Mike offered a proverbial olive branch as he laced his boots, and was relieved when those illuminated glass eyes softened a hair, and Freddy nodded.

Freddy, of course, didn’t eat, but that wasn’t the point. It was the point that whatever Mike Schmidt got himself into, he often did it with Freddy Fazbear these days. And Mike wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

For nearly ten years now, Mike had worked here. In that time, he’d seen enough oddities to know the supernatural was real, and often brutal and violent and terrifying. _Things-that-went-bump-in-the-night_ were occasionally bad, but humanity was sometimes the real monster. True, Mike had met plenty of people that were good _and_ bad. And grey-area, too. _Plenty_ of villains and good guys and monsters and do-goods. He had some friends outside the Fazes but almost nothing left in the way of family, blood-family that is. Just a mother in a nursing home due to her Alzheimer’s, a shitty studio apartment because most of his money went to said nursing home, and a father who’d walked out on them when Mike was six. Maybe he had died by now, it was hard to know. Mike’s poor genes would suggest that, certainly. Mike’s mother didn’t remember, and she wasn’t talking anytime soon. A good day was a day she remembered Mike, in fact. A bad day was one where she thought he was his father and got so upset the staff would ask him to leave, but with sad, pitying glances. A worse day was one he wasn’t allowed to see her at all, and those scared him the most.

Mike wasn’t big on pity for himself. He didn’t need it. It wouldn’t change anything. Others had it worse than him, didn’t they? He had his humor and his smarts, and his dreams.

It wasn’t his mom’s fault, anyway. In some way, it wasn’t his old man’s fault either. Mike hadn’t been a normal kid. Sure, he’d been friendly, and smart. He took apart their washing machine at age nine and had it back together with the minor change that the door flew open randomly and spewed water everywhere.

But Mike had been small. And he had been so sick. For a dad who wanted a kid to run around with, to play ball or to simply behave like other kids, well. That wasn’t in the cards, and so it didn’t happen. Not once. And hospitals and sick kids that weren’t supposed to live past five but blew out seven candles through his coughing weren’t cheap. Mike was no exception. One day he woke up in the clinical hospital room, and only his mother was there, relieved to see him awake after his surgery, as well as a stuffed bear with a pink heart that said ‘Get Well Soon!’ which Mike thought was funny since he was one of the terminal kids. He had groggily questioned where his father was, and his mother had asked him to rest and regain his strength so they could go home soon.

And that was the end of that.

Mike used to joke to himself that there was a revolving door built for him at the hospital. Because joking was easier than the truth. It always had been.

And, funnily enough, the social school system was not all that kind and accepting of sickly, hospitalized kids who were in beds more than they were in their seats during class. Mike’s brains kept him afloat, but they didn’t let him _be a kid,_ and as he got old enough to live on his own, his mother’s own mental health began to decline. Sometimes it felt to Mike like she’d made a deal with a devil at the crossroads, her health in exchange for his. He was friendly enough he blended, yes, but Mike didn’t feel like he truly _belonged_ anywhere. That was hard, especially on a kid who was told over and over he wouldn’t see his next birthday, and yet kept doing so. After all, Mike was stubborn.

And then college happened, somehow. A trust fund from his grandparents that dried up before the semesters did. Loans. Three jobs. No time for anything, least of all friends and no resources for his own medicine to help his ever-weakening and wobbly heart.

Then the ad in Freddy’s. A risk. A gamble. A choice in a moment. If Mike knew how scary the job would have been those first five nights, in hindsight he probably would have skipped over that damn ad.

But he didn’t. He tried it anyway, even though he was scared and lost and more at risk for a heart attack than the average kid his age. And that bravery—or perhaps stupidity, depending on who you ask—caught the eye of a certain puppet master and set a lot of dominoes falling into motion.

And the rest they might say is history.

Best of all? Mike had a family, now. One that didn’t just need him for money, one that remembered him and would always remember him. Oh, he adored his mother and visited her twice a week, as often as he could honestly, but he knew one day he’d wake up and be an orphan.

Which was an odd thought. He was nearly 28, and that wasn’t exactly orphan age.

But that’s how it _felt_. And it scared him.

The only thing that scared him worse was the realization his family was getting on in years too. Freddy was rattling apart some nights, and the pieces to fix him were harder and harder to come by. Chica’s dexterous, delicate joints like her wrists and fingers were locking up and starting to collect rust, and she was more expensive to fix than anyone save perhaps Bonnie, whose limp and processors were so bad he couldn’t play his guitar for more than four songs. Foxy, of course, was the most physically damaged of them all, since he had had a teenager stuffed into him—Alex Afton to be more specific—and not a smaller child like the other three. Foxy’s lazy days were more frequent than his active ones, and he could only work every two or three party for every seven they booked.

The moment Mike realized what was happening, he sold his apartment and moved into the restaurant, almost overnight. It had everything he needed, really. He took Mari’s Prize Room for his bedroom, which had a window overlooking the back parking lot (all it needed was some new glass) and was somewhat cozy on cool nights, especially when Freddy joined him and kept the room heated with his massive inner workings. The bathrooms were fine for almost everything, and Mike had even spent eighty or so bucks at the hardware store throwing up a showerhead in the back stall complete with floor drain. It wasn’t perfect, but he kept the kitchen stocked for birthday parties and for himself, buying what he could to keep Chica happy so she could cook for him when she felt like it—which she always did, even if he tried telling her once that, yes, he could in fact make his own toast or coffee, and that she didn’t need to be his personal chef.

But just like their kid, the Fazes were a stubborn lot. Chica almost never let him make food for himself; she only gave him a grocery list every once a week or so, or let him help with dishes or cleaning her kitchen in exchange for food. (Which was a fair trade in Mike’s mind, he’d scrub the floors with a tooth brush for Chica’s cooking,) and Foxy and Bonnie worked when they could, or fixed up the few remaining arcade games to sell as vintage for a couple hundred when needed. Freddy cleaned, as he always did, even if he took twice as long to do so or had to cut down on rooms due to his power levels. Mostly, he looked after Mike, who was often getting into something he shouldn’t and who, despite his disagreements, did need someone sensible keeping an eye on him.

More than once Mike found his bed made and he had to gently remind Freddy he didn’t need a mom, just a best friend. But Mike appreciated them looking after him nonetheless. Mike had been used to living alone in a shady part of town, but now? No one approached the old restaurant on the hill after dark, and even if they did, no one was getting past Bon’s sharp ears or Freddy’s protective ire when it came to looking out for his pizzeria or their night guard.

Not that Mike blamed wary humans; even with the Nightmares gone, the place still looked spooky even in the best evening light. He did most of their business during day time, over the phone, booking places and moving money. He had less to worry about after the staff left; though he tried making sure all of them had jobs or places to go when he did so.

“You alright son? Ya look bout a million miles away.” Freddy’s deep, bell-like voice broke the night guard from his thoughts and for a second, he stared over the mug of his coffee at the bear sitting across from him at one of the few remaining tables they hadn’t stacked up to the side or sold.

“Huh? Oh, yeah—no, I’m good Freddy.” Mike swallowed a gulp and tried to look convincing. “Just, old ghosts.”

“Mh-hm.” Freddy didn’t buy it, but Mike decided now was a good a time as any to poke the bear. He’d hoped it could have waited, but if he didn’t hit the road soon he’d lose most of the day.

“I did actually need to tell you something.”Mike said.

“Oh?” Freddy hummed.

“Do you…ever think about moving? To another town? Or state…?” Mike hedged, not looking up from his eggs and bacon. He’d never know how she did it, but Chica’s cooking was always soul-healing and delicious.

“A new town, eh?” Freddy lapsed into thoughtful silence. “New restaurant.”

“New kids. But…kids are everywhere. Our past isn’t. Freddy’s history—there’s places where we could just be us, and start fresh.”

Freddy nodded, slowly. He didn’t look happy, but he also hadn’t halted the conversation.

“I dunno, it’s just…this place, big guy.” Mike’s gaze slid across the sad Dining Hall. It was dusty. The stage was ruined when Springtrap had to get the keys Mike had hidden. The curtains were moth eaten. Fresh air was only a guest some days, when Mike forgot to air the old joint out.

“Not happy here with us, son?”

“What!?” Mike startled, blinking. “No! _No,_ it’s not that, Fred, jeez—I’m happy here! But it’s complicated. Ever since Pizza World, when I saw all the new chrome and the tech there…I guess I’ve been jealous.” Mike caught Faz’s stare, and snorted. “Well, not of it being _underground,_ no, but of all the space and room they had. I love this place too, but ya gotta admit we were cramped even before…”

“Place has a lotta memories, don’t it?” Freddy mused, watching Mike’s two-toned eyes glance toward Parts and Services, whose letters had fallen of long ago. Now it was called Arts and Vices, much to the humor of Mike.

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe I just wanna find us a new home, somewhere we can set down roots without worrying about finding a body under it. _Again.”_ Mike grumbled sourly, and Freddy snorted in understanding.

“Well. It’s something to consider.” Freddy finally said.

Mike perked up, dragging his fork out of his mouth, chewing and swallowing before he said, “Yeah? You mean it?”

Freddy nodded.

“I said it before, an’ I’ll say it again. I followed you in, an’ I’ll follow you out. Just gotta lead the way, son.”

That was a lot of responsibility, but somehow it was exactly what Mike needed to hear.

* * *

For Mike Schmidt, night guard, manager and handyman for Freddy Fazbear’s Party Rental, the day passed in relative ease. He finished his errands, didn’t have to contend with snow on the road, and came in from the cold to the intoxicating aroma of Chica’s beef stew with rolls. He devoured three bowls and four rolls, head bobbing to Bonnie’s music—the rabbit was on an oldies kick, as _Aerosmith_ crowed through the little restaurant while he ate dinner and leafed through _Screws, Bolts and Hairpins,_ scribbling in his notebook as he mumbled the words to Sweet Emotion. Then it was helping Chica with dishes whether she liked it or not—she loved it, but she often scolded him for doing her job, even if he smiled and grabbed a towel anyway— then it was fixing Foxy’s jaw and hook, and tightening some of Mangle’s more stubborn parts that she had strained terrorizing the few mice that tried to live in Fazbear’s.

He was organizing his sad little work bench in the old Prize Room when it happened.

He ignored it the first time, thinking it only a trick of his mind. Then it happened again, the insistent shrill ring of the land line down the hall, all the way in his office, buried somewhere on his desk.

“Weird.” Mike mumbled, standing up from the epicenter of destruction he called organizing and scrambling over boxes and bits and ends. As he walked under the threshold, something whined up on the ceiling and clambered after him nosily, taking reproach at having to move when the massive thing had _just_ settled down and gotten comfy. Mangle moved with less grace than even Mike did, which was saying something.

“I know,” Mike said soothingly to the ceiling as he strode along the dark hall to his old office. “That old landline never rings anymore…who still has our number?”

His little tag-along, all eighteen and a half feet of her, clicked her plastic teeth together in inquisitive agreement. She coiled her long jammed together parts carefully, dangling off the ceiling and ‘hssking’ when she ‘spoke’ down at him.

“Better stay out there, sweetie.” Mike asked the fox amalgamation nicely, smiling at her lowering triangle ears. “You know you and phones don’t get along much. It’s alright. I won’t be long.”

As Mangle loitered up above him in the hall, her parts dangling and clinking, Mike jumped the last distance to snag the receiver off the hook just before the final ring.

“Uh, hello?” Mike said.

_“Hello? Yes?”_ The connection was still poor quality, even with Mangle out of range. Static roared like Freddy before dying down with minor flicks and spits.

“Yeah? Is—is someone there?” Mike remembered his manners and cleared his throat. “If you’d like to schedule a birthday party for your kid, you might wanna call my cell. It will be easier to hear you and—“

_“Eh? No—no I’m not calling for—birthday parties? Hello? Is this…is this the night guard at Freddy’s?”_ The voice sounded like it knew it was. Odd. On instinct, Mike hesitated.

“Speaking.” He answered.

_“Good. Now, ah, Rich told me to tell you myself—something about—who was it? The bear? Freddy? Not liking him. Heh.”_ Poor contained laughter that caught Mike off guard. _“Old Rich never did like those fellas—is Freddy your favorite, then?”_

“I’m…sorry?” Mike managed, polite from confusion more than any real attempt to be.

_“He must be—if you’re **his** favorite. Alright—here’s the skinny, Schmidt. We’re opening a new one. And I want you to come over and take a look at it. That sound good?” _

“I’m sorry, I don’t—a new—hello? Who is this?”

_“Henry. This is Henry—surely Drummond’s told you about me? No? Feh—well, whaddya want from an accountant?”_ The man said the word as if account was synonymous with ‘rodent.’ Mike wasn’t about to disagree, but something still seemed…odd. And Mike Schmidt had held on to many of his extra lives by trusting his gut.

“Henry--? Uh, I _know_ Mr. Drummond but he’s never said anything about you.”

_“Oh, he didn’t, did he? No surprise. Well— **I** own the company, Schmidt. What’s left of it. I used to work with Afton. I made allll your little friends over there—the older ones, anyway. I assume you’ve kept them in tip-top shape? Freddy? Bonnie? Can’t forget about him. Every Freddy needs a Bonnie. And then there’s Chica…and Foxy the pirate, right?” _

Mike nodded, then realized he was talking on a phone and quickly, blurted, “Yes! I mean—yes. I, the restaurant went under but I…I take them to kid’s parties. They, they love it.”

_“I bet they do.”_ The warmth in Henry’s voice was brief but palpable. Mike’s grip on the phone tightened, the plastic cracking in warning as Golden Freddy roused in Mike’s bones.

_“I know what happened last month, Mike.”_ Henry’s warmth was gone, and Mike stayed silent from shame and confusion. How had…? _“And I’m going to give you the chance to fix what happened, too. Provided you do what **I** want in exchange of course.” _

“…come to the new location, right?” Mike hesitated. “You just want me to make sure it’s safe?” 

_“Smart boy.”_ Henry praised. _“You can even bring the others, how’s that? If there’s room for them in the show, I’ll pay you triple your normal rate. After all, we need you here **quick**. Got to have everything ready for Saturday. Got to have em all here.”_

“Why me?”

_“Why you?’ Well—why not! You’re the night guard—the best one we’ve got, sounds like!”_

_‘The only one you’ve got.’_ Mike kept that grim thought to himself.

“Saturday, you said…?” Mike managed. “What’s Saturday? The grand opening?”

_“I’ve had Drummond send you the address. Shouldn’t take you more than a day of travel.”_ Henry spoke on, as if he hadn’t heard Schmidt or was ignoring him. _“See you then, Michael.”_

The line went dead.

“…huh.” Was all Mike said after a long minute of staring at the phone in his hand.

Mangle chattered above him somewhere.

“Oh—sorry, coming girl.”

But the strange conversation followed Mike from his old office and back into his second workshop. He stepped into the room, staring at his latest project on the floor and counter top. Old prizes and toys stared down at him from their dust covered shelves. Mike glanced at the very old and very faded Present box sitting behind the counter and sighed wearily. He walked closer to it, then round the counter and settled back against the formica. His hand patted the dusty purple bow. It crinkled sadly under his light touch and he withdrew his hand.

Mike stared at the faded drawings of the puppet on the wall, and chewed his cheek in thought.

“Weird, isn’t it Marion? That guy sounded familiar, almost. But the connection was so shitty, almost like Mangle’s interference. But…well, I think that was just me being paranoid. Everyone on that line sounds like they’re talkin’ through a static snow storm, yanno?”

The drawings and the Present Box did not reply. They never did. So Mike spoke on, rambling out loud as he often did these days, because it helped him replace the silence in the old, dark building.

“Eh…I should be grateful, though. That’s…a lotta money for just a walkthrough of a new restaurant. And the gang would flip to meet new kids and be on a stage again, even for just a week. Man, a real stage—with new connectors and better speakers! Can you imagine? Bonnie would give his left ear to play for a big crowd again.” Mike sighed and fiddled with the end of the fraying silk bow.

“…I know, I know. You’d tell me to go for it…especially if it means I can keep the lights on here a bit longer. You’d say, ‘one open mind,’ or something that would make sense later after I thought about it.” Mike rolled his blue eyes thoughtfully and smiled wanly at the memory. 

Birthday parties didn’t quite pay the bills all the time, after all. Especially not the electricity the original four sucked up.

The Mangle finally wandered in after him, chirping and clicking in her strange little language. Mike tore himself from his thoughts and addressed the Toy Foxy model with affection.

“Can you go get your Captain, sweetie? I…I think we need to call a staff meeting.”

Like she always did when Foxy was mentioned, Mangle cooed happily and quickly obliged. Her centipede like frame looped backward. She curled upside down across the ceiling, vanishing down the hall. Mike picked his train of thought back up, running hand through his messy hair in mild frustration. He glanced back over his shoulder to address the Present box.

“I dunno, Mari. The gang is gunna be for this, I know that. But…how come I don’t feel excited?”

Maybe, Mike thought to himself in a very Puppet-like tone, it was because he had finally grown wiser over the years.

Maybe.

* * *

Locking up the old restaurant was easier than it would have been when they were an open establishment. Mangle was given explicit instructions to watch the building, opening the door only for Danny and Bonnet, who were asked to come once every few days to check on Mangle and make sure nothing was odd. Maybe it was too much security on Mike’s part, but he believed in being prepared for any avenue.

And, if nothing else, it calmed Freddy Fazbear himself, who worried after his beloved restaurant like the papa bear he was. And if Freddy was content, then Mike was too.

The old van had hauled the original four and Mike across the state, leaving Hurricane and the gray clouds and eventually the sunset far behind.

“Fazbear Entertainment.” Mike read the sign out loud, throwing on the break as he peered through the dark of the night. He cranked the radio down so he could himself think over Hendrix, ignoring the protests of a certain purple bunny in the back and craned himself around, arm thrown over the passenger’s seat.

“Now, listen you four. I want you guys on your best behavior. This isn’t like Fazbear’s Fright, and it isn’t like Circus Baby’s Pizza World. Drummond confirmed Henry’s story—this is a human, this is the CEO of our butts, age aside. Until I get a read on the situation, you guys are to stay on the stage during the day, and act exactly as you’re expected to act.”

“Ye mean we gotta be lifeless, preprogrammed layabouts, lad?” Foxy griped, snapping his sharp jaw to broadcast his dislike of this plan.

“When there are other people in the building, yes.” Mike stressed. “If it’s just us, and there’s no camera…”

“Even if there is,” Bonnie grinned, “You could just erase em~ You’re the night guard after all, the tape sees all and you see the tape!”

“C’mon Mikey, let us have a little fun.” Chica purred. “I wanna see the kitchen, and I bet you’re starving.”

He was. Mike had driven past the last two Exits once he noticed the sun going down. His off hours meant he was more of a night owl than most, and he liked it that way. Less people about to question and remember. They had arrived just after twilight; the sleepy little town was pitch black and everything was closed save for a single, leaning gas station they had passed four miles ago. Fazbear’s Entertainment was nestled up into the outer skirts of nowhere, roughly in the central location of: ‘What do you mean we’re lost!?’

It was a familiar placement, one Mike recognized. He wondered idly if that was by design.

“Later. I promise.” Mike’s assertion ended the discussion, because those two words were sacred and rarely used. Mike _never_ broke his promises.

So Schmidt parked, killed the engine and hopped out. He wasn’t surprised to hear the loud, clanking sound of an animatronic moving out of the van, and he turned as Fazbear rounded the flank of their ride.

“You were pretty quiet just then, big guy. And this doesn’t look like waiting for me to get a read on the situation.” Mike observed in a soft voice. The only light they had was the little street lamps that surrounded the small parking lot. Another building that looked like a little warehouse was around behind Fazbear’s Entertainment, creating a little alley that was pitch black from the angle Mike could see.

“Lot ta’take in, is all. And I’d feel better if I was with ya. Sides. S’after midnight. My free roam _is_ Active.” Freddy’s low tenor muttered down to him, earning a little nod from Mike.

“Big place. Real done up, too.” Freddy observed in his country way.

Fazbear Entertainment _was_ nice. New-nice, with shiny windows, and likely unused doors with silent hinges. If the inside was as clean as the outside, Mike knew the gang would be unwilling to leave such a promising atmosphere. He couldn’t blame them.

Mike turned back to the blue-glass optics trained on him, and the night guard studied his best friend’s expression. He knew, once Freddy was on stage or if children were around, the bear’s features would turn robotic. He would mimic lifelessness while keeping himself very much aware of his surroundings.

Mike savored the natural features of Freddy for a moment, and then smiled lazily.

“Whatever is in there, we’ll be okay. C’mon, Freddy.” Mike decided not to give another lecture on the importance of playing it cool, trusting the big old bear to have heard him the first time.

Freddy pushed the wide door open for his night guard, leaning his girth back to let Mike venture in first.

Before he could stop himself, the night guard whistled in appreciation, stopping to take it all in.

It wasn’t just new, it was _huge._ The main room was the entire Dining Hall, customers walked right in and would be hit with all the loud, bright and fun sights and sounds an active Freddy’s would offer in its running hours. The stage alone was twice the size of Freddy’s Pizzeria, with sparkling ruby curtains. Nine long tables boasted a huge capacity, maybe even double their limit from back in the day. Strange but colorful arcade machines circled the tables on both sides—children could play almost all of the games and still see the stage.

The stage was empty, but Mike eyed the LEDs and stage lights with no small amount of envy, for they looked brand new just like everything else in the joint. Still, he’d better give them a once over in technician mode. Foxy was the most sensitive of the gang when it came to his tired optics, and Mike especially didn’t want to worry about a little kid with a risk of seizures when the show was going full tilt.

The room was empty, but there were stainless steel doors leading to what Mike presumed was a kitchen, and four more doors that lead to…somewhere. There were no signs labeling the doors, and Mike’s curiosity was on them immediately. A big room with lots of avenues for escape? In Freddy’s history, this was not usually a good thing. It was more like a curse, and possible way for some very familiar and very terrible events.

Filing that criticism away for later, Mike went back to scanning the room, eyeing the big play area with its heavy-duty build and the slide that wound down into a little pit of brightly colored plastic balls.

“Hey, they got a ball pit!” Mike pointed out, grinning when Freddy snorted in amusement at his comment. “What? I never got to go in those as a kid, remember?”

“Jump on in, then.” Freddy grunted, gesturing with a paw as big as Mike’s head.

“Funny.” Mike went to elbow the bear in his stomach when he noticed Freddy’s sudden intense stare across the room, and on instinct Mike followed his gaze.

“Ahh, you must be Mr. Schmidt. And with my Freddy, too.”

Had the man heard? Upon second glance, Mike’s doubts eased slowly. The man was…old. Ancient, if Mike was going to be honest. And he was across the entire spacious area. His grizzled hand gripped a black and white striped cane, but the rest of him was grey and plain looking. Worn, but neat and tidy clothes. His shoulders, once wide and strong were hunched, but his eyes glittered. There was a strange betrayal to them, for Mike could see no glasses or cataracts.

“Hi.” Mike found his voice after a cough, walking over so the man didn’t have to labor across the huge room.

“You’re--?”

“Henry. Call me Henry.” The man’s free hand moved for Mike’s and he returned the gesture. “Good grip there. Clever hands. Can always tell a person by their hands. You work well with machines?”

“Yeah—I mean, uh, yes, sir.” Mike paused, “…do my hands tell you that too, or…?”

“No. That there does.” The man’s accent was faded, but it was faintly southern. Mike realized this with a startled blink, and turned to look at the bear that was forever his shadow, who even now was looming over him like always. Of course Freddy had followed him across the room, but the fact he had done so silently was telling. Either Freddy’s acting was getting bad, or he was on guard and uneasy about something.

Henry’s voice broke Mike’s thoughts.

“Been taking care of my little friends, have you? Looks alright, for his age.” Henry swept a critical, sharp gaze over the old bear, from his top hat to his flat feet.

“You built…Freddy?” Mike said, and the old man nodded.

“Freddy Fazbear. Now, he’s always been a tough one. Took me the longest to program, save for one other. Wanted someone to be the leader, like Goldy was. Someone big, but warm. Real gentleman, to set a good example for the children…” Henry’s voice grew distant, laced across with a clouded memory. As Mike stepped to the side, he watched Henry and Freddy stare at each other evenly. Fazbear’s expression was carefully blank, not a hint of the strange, surreal lifelikeness to him that Mike loved and relied on.

Henry didn’t seem to notice.

Mike lapsed into silence, feeling his posture loosen, like he should move away further. He felt…like he was interrupting a very intimate, if strange, moment. Before he noticed it was bothering him, it had wormed its way deep into his chest, like a knot of snakes. Henry rambled on, settled lazily on his cane.

“The top hat was my daughter’s idea. Said it gave him class, and smarts. She said if Freddy was going to _be_ a gentleman then he ought to look the part—of course, the bow too. And Bonnie, well, _he_ needed a bow, because _he_ was Freddy’s best friend, and he liked to copy the bear. But he wouldn’t want a hat, of course, on account of his ears.” Henry jabbed a finger to his own crown and nodded knowingly. “Get in the way of ‘em, and Bonnie’s are _very_ particular about their ears.”

That was true, of course. All of it. Mike had just never realized that there was someone out here besides Afton who was left _who gave a damn_. But he had seen the character in the gang for ten years, and it was startling to see someone else speak about the gang the way Mike would to others who didn’t know their secrets. To speak so openly and matter-of-factly.

“Someone to be pals with. Yes, that was Freddy. Brave, and big, like a bear out to be. But kind, mind you, and warm—did I say that already? Freddy’s the sort who _Remembers._ Even if you grew up, why, you’d return, and no matter how many years it’d been, no matter how old or tall or different ya were, he’d be there to welcome ya back. With a big bear hug and a big bear smile, and those years would just melt away.”

Freddy stayed silent, suddenly more animatronic, more machine, than anything else, but his eyelids lowered subtly, his intense stare softening. After a long beat, where something passed between creator and creation, only then did Freddy’s glass eyes click to his right, now watching Mike quietly.

“…sir?” Mike took the cue, still watching the old man, whose gaze looked to be about a lifetime away. Mike knew that look. Freddy wore it often on long nights.

Henry jerked his head a bit, smoothed his hair back and turned to the night guard.

“Henry. None of this ‘sir’ nonsense now, Mike.” The man assured smoothly with a calm smile, and Mike hated himself for his previous surge of jealousy. “Why don’t we get your little friends installed on stage, and then call it a night, eh? Tour can come tomorrow.”

Mike saw his chance.

“If it’s alright, Henry, I’d like the chance to stay here over night.”

“Over _night?”_ Henry parroted in disbelief, and eyed the scrawny man with a new glint in his eye.

“Well, if I’m to…to play night guard, and _really_ do my job correctly, I need to see this place at all hours. Running and closed. It just…it makes me feel better. Freddy’s never sleeps—at least, ours didn’t.” Mike felt a puncture of pride jab at his jealousy, as he reminded Henry of their own restaurant, lost to time though it was. Besides, the business—Freddy and the gang included—were still running. Mike would take all the minor accomplishments he could get, because this job wasn’t easy. 

Henry regarded him a moment, then nodded.

“I suppose you’re on to something, my boy. We’re opening Saturday, but I want your official sign off when it comes to every inch of this place. Guess that does mean off-hours, eh? That’s not all—I want you to help me set up the new animatronics, and I need you to help me find some old ones for parts. Think you can manage all that, and work here nights? Not gunna drop on me, are you?” Henry demanded, sounding so much like a stern father Mike had to stifle a smile.

“I’m pretty tough, I’m told.” Mike affirmed with a secret smile to Freddy, who was wandering after Mike as the two humans headed for the van.

“I see.” Henry nodded in thought, and seemed to mull Mike’s words over a great deal as he moved toward the front doors.

“Alright, then, Mike Schmidt. I’ll give you the keys. List of duties is in your office.”

“Okay.” Mike waited, and when the old man stayed silent, he prompted, “Where is my office?”

“You bring Freddy’s Bonnie model?” Henry demanded, seemingly off the cuff. “The original, not the Toy one. I’m sure by now you’ve learned they’re _not_ interchangeable.”

“…uh, yeah! Of course, but—“

“Then you’ll find it just fine. If you’re as good with the rest of em as you are with my Freddy here, then I expect you to be capable of working relatively independently, Mike. I have a right laundry list of tasks to get through myself, and while I don’t mind a question or two, I’m afraid I can’t hand hold or chat, though I’d love nothing more.” Henry’s playful, calm tone seemed to tighten, and Mike noticed right away. Huh.

Mike nodded, still unused to someone knowing the full extent of the gang’s capabilities _. ‘And yet…he doesn’t seem to expect them to be…Alive. Haunted, I mean. Isn’t that weird, Marion?’_ Mike puzzled to himself.

The Puppet, of course, did not answer. But Golden Freddy, who still haunted Mike’s bones, thrummed in single-note, sleepy agreement.

**‘Odd, indeed.’** Rumbled the ghostly animatronic.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Henry was less than pleased with Foxy’s state. Even less unsurprising was his complete and total lack of acknowledging _why_ Foxy was the way he was. Typical FazCo behavior, as far as the slightly embittered Mike was concerned, but he hid his own displeasure best he could. A good first impression was important, especially if he wanted roaming rights at night for himself and the gang. He couldn’t see them staying locked to their stages for six long nights. Chica liked being busy at night in her kitchen, Bonnie and Foxy were always playing games and getting into something they shouldn’t, and Freddy went wherever Mike went.

But Foxy wasn’t even placed on the stage with the others, even though there was ample room for him on Bonnie’s right, and a whole other stage port to hold the old pirate up. And without a Pirate’s Cove in the large, rectangle of a main hall, the old fox was simply placed in the corner by one of the doors. Mike caught the old man watching Foxy’s still form once or twice. He even caught a sad, somber shake of Henry’s head before he turned to adjust Chica’s bib just so.

Mike had moved Foxy last, who was off the dolly and standing in his locked stage-pose. Things had been going well, but the second he saw that furious orange optic illuminate and click toward Henry, the night guard lunged in front of that turning head.

“Take it easy, Captain.” Mike hushed under his breath, sensing the slow start of an angry hiss from the back of the old fox’s pipes. The night guard stood, checked out of the corner of his eye the old man wasn’t watching, and ran his hand comfortingly up and down Foxy’s muzzle to force the ragged pirate to watch him back, “Stay calm. I’ll talk to him.”

He was given a low, warning glare from the mean fox that steadily softened, especially when Mike only quirked a brow coaxingly, keeping up his gentle strokes from muzzle bridge to tip of the fox’s black polished nose.

“Promise.” Mike added. And with a slow grunt of resignation, Mike felt that crocodile-wide jaw relax closed obediently. In reward Mike freed a screw driver from the back pocket of his jeans and quickly tightened the screws that would keep Foxy able to work his bottom jaw. So long as he didn’t use it to take a bit out of anyone, they’d be golden.

“Thanks.” He whispered in relief before moving over in case Henry needed help down the stage steps at the far end, though he seemed to move alright, even given the cane.

As Henry eased his way down the steps, he caught the curtain, which shifted. Mike caught the white edge and a purple bow and his heart clenched hard enough to make him gasp.

“What?” Henry heard him, even as behind him Freddy’s head whipped down to Mike. The other three’s optics were alight on the night guard with interest.

“You have—“ Forgetting himself, Mike tugged the curtain up and stopped.

The bow was the wrong shade, and it was dark red, not purple. And the box was too short too.

“Mike?” Henry asked in concern, and he followed the young man’s gaze. “Oh, the Security Puppet? That poor girl’s never worked right, but if you want to have a go at getting her up and running, by all means, be my guest.”

_“Security_ Puppet?” Mike parroted in disbelief. “But there was only one Puppet—“

“There was only one _Prize_ Puppet.” Henry corrected as he hobbled himself easily down the stairs and collapsed in a nearby chair, against a table. Cane between his legs and hands laid over the other, he saw Mike’s look and chuckled.

“Go on! Bring her out, bring her out.” His grizzled hand swept welcomingly.” I can see the look on your face, boy. You like the Puppet models, too? Rare, you are. The adults never like the Puppets—and I can assure you, I think the feeling became mutual rather quickly. Prize Puppet especially, since he always seemed to be thinking, and could go anywhere.”

Mike swallowed, but nodded. It seemed everything Marion used to be able to do that unnerved Adults only made Mike feel more at ease. No one messed with the Puppet, not Adult or Animatronic alike. Well, no that is, except Nightmare…

Mike eyed the box but bent down to collect it gently. 

“Did Drummond tell you about…?”

“About what happened to the original Prize Puppet? Oh, yes. Right shame. But then, I can’t believe it was still running at all by your time. That little fellow was old as the other two.”

“As…as old as Goldy and SpringBonnie, right?” Mike hedged as he backed out of the small backstage, arms full of a present box that was a bit smaller than Marion’s. It was heavier, cluing Mike into whatever was in the box was very real, and not very ghostly, and probably was as Henry said. Broken and normal.

Henry’s silence to Mike’s question was answer enough.

“Be careful about speaking about old ghosts, young man.” Henry leaned close to Mike as the man set down the present box. “Y’know what they say about names? Man’s not gone til his names no longer spoken.’”

“I… haven’t heard that one.” Mike acquiesced as he fiddled with the box’s shiny, crinkly bow.

“Well, best you remember it, then. Speak the dead’s names too frequently and they’re liable to start poking outta their graves, and come looking for _you.”_

“What is Security Puppet supposed to do?” Mike decided to divert the conversation so the hairs on the back of his neck stopped standing up. Henry was sitting sideways but could see the stage, and a quick glance confirmed what Mike assumed—the gang was silent and deactivated. Or at least, playing the part.

As he asked this, he lifted the lid of the box, the bow rustling in such a familiar tone Mike’s heartache doubled. He peered into the box, studying the little bent up figure with a frown. She was small, and fully stretched out would have been half the size of Marion. She had more stripes, too, and more buttons. Marion had been fast when he wanted to—teleporting aside—but if she was smaller and presumably lighter, she’d be even _faster_. She was black and white, but had a little jester’s bell and her mask was varied from the one Mike remembered. Her face was hard plastic, unlike Mari’s chilly porcelain, and her paint was fresh yet some of her joints looked rusted. There was no way of knowing her optic color—behind her naturally split in half mask, her black little optics were dark and inactive. When he reached in and hefted her out, her thin limbs flopped loosely and her bell tinkled, the noise almost meek.

“Well, frankly, even when she was online we could never quite get her kinks out. Perhaps it was too adventurous of me, but I thought at the time that I could bring a certain…level of safety that the restaurants needed at the time. Adults paid a fee, and they borrowed a colored band for their children. One band, one child. There’s still some in there, I think.”

“These?”

“That’s them. See, there were a few colors.” Henry watched Mike pick up a blue one. “Color meant priority, reds being the highest and blue being mild. You might rent a red band for a youngster who was prone to wander, but a teenager who’d stick to one booth all day and grumble, well, he’d only need a blue one.”

“Huh. Okay. So, a kid wears a band,” Mike clasped the band to his wrist, just under his watch. He taped the button a few time, and surprisingly it light up. “Then what?”

“That’s it. Only time something happens—er, something that was _supposed_ to happen—was if the child wearing the band tried leaving the restaurant, or going out of bounds, say, in the kitchen or the offices.”

“Or Parts and Service.” Mike realized with a tone of marvel and awe. This little animatronic in his grip could have prevented…so much. Even just one…

“Exactly.” Henry’s face was stony, and serious. “She’d go fetch them. And she was programmed to stop at nothing to do so.”

“Why is she rusty?” _‘Where had she come from? The original diner?’_ The first question was aimed at Henry, but the second at the ghost in his bones.

**‘Don’t remember her.’** Admitted Gold after he took a drowsy peek through Mike’s eyes.

“Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid. Her tech is advanced, and with advancement comes weakness. She’s very prone to water damage, and somehow, someway…she got wet. “ Henry shook his head regretfully. “I haven’t had time to work on her.”

“Does she still power on?”

Henry shrugged. “If her battery isn’t busted, she’ll need to be charged regardless. Her box is her charging station. There’s a few spares lying around—far as I’m concerned, if it’s not powering something, you can use it on her. You’re welcome to try, Mike.”

“…alright. Thank you, Henry.” Mike glanced at the man before he settled the crumpled little puppet back into her box. “I mean it, thank you.”

“Be careful, though. No, I don’t mean that she’s dangerous—but she’s much more advanced than your friends. I don’t need a fried night guard on my hands before the doors even open, you hear me?”

“Understood, sir—uh, Henry.” Mike smiled as the man rose and headed for the door, clearly intending on taking his leave.

“And remember,” Henry rounded sharply on Mike, moving much too fast for a man of his advanced age. Mike startled back into Freddy on instinct, but Henry was only holding a finger playfully in front of the man’s face.

“You get up to anything you shouldn’t,” Henry said with a grin, “and Freddy will tell me.”

Mike swallowed but nodded, staying silent. He felt strange, not because he worried about Freddy tattling on him, but because that implied there was something here to get _into._

If Mike wanted to do his job the way the Marionette had told him to all those years ago, he would have to find what that was.

And with the Grand Opening on Saturday, he would only have one week to uncover it all.


	2. Nothing Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story does have Acts like Ghost Strings did. I’m not sure the chapter count, but I do plan to have 3 Acts. It just keeps me more organized with plot and usually results in more fic for you to enjoy!

“Silence lay heavily upon the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.” _–The Haunting of Hill House  
_

* * *

**ACT I  
Chapter 2. Nothing Remains**

After Henry left, Mike realized he hadn’t seen another car.

“Musta parked round the back. There’s a lotta space there. And don’t you always say bosses park in the back?” Bonnie shrugged in disinterest when Mike voiced his realization.

“Yeah, I guess.” Mike rubbed the back of his neck tiredly, scratching absently as he watched Bonnie’s ears swivel and flick. “How’s it coming?”

“Place is big, dude. Bigger than ours, in terms of square footage. It’s gunna take me a while, even longer than Circus Baby’s underground horror show. I found the new Parts and Services, but it’s got another smaller room that leads to the back.” Bonnie hesitated, fiddling with his guitar as he wandered toward the kitchen doors, but then turned as if hearing something of great interest coming from the left side of the hall. His inner workings were loud, and his fans were close to chugging.

“Well…when you find the office, lemme know.” Mike paused as Bonnie’s ears turned toward the grumbling sound between them. “I’m, uh, I’m gunna go see how Chica’s doing...”

Bonnie caught on immediately, and rolled his pink optics in amusement. “Don’t eat them out of house and home, Mike. You’re gunna get us kicked out.”

“Rabbit’s gotta point, lad.” Foxy snickered from where he was flopped on the stage contently. The second Mike had cleared them from Henry or any watchful cameras; the fox had hopped onto the stage, displaying such an act of sheer pettiness that it made Mike snort in laughter.

And because he was a mature, seasoned night guard of Freddy’s, Mike blew raspberries at them both, and trotted into the kitchen. The familiar sound of pots and pans rustling eased some of his anxiety, as did spotting Chica and Freddy in the long ways, gleaming and stainless steel kitchen.

“Wow, Chica, look at this place!” Mike grinned as Chica turned, her optics alight with joy.

“Isn’t it just the _cutest?”_ She gushed. “Everything’s so shiny and all the appliances are just! Oh, and look at the size of the ovens, Mikey, and the tile! And the walk-ins, it’s marvelous in here!”

“Any chance I could put in an order?” Mike hedged, spotting Freddy’s amused glance in his direction. “What? Hey, we gotta see if this place can run as a restaurant, don’t we? I’m just testing out the food. That’s important to kids.”

Between all three of them, Mike’s stomach made another grumble of hunger, and his look shifted to sheepish innocence, going for cute. It usually worked on Freddy, so long as he did it.

“Sure, chickadee, your usual?” Chica said, more than willing it seemed to feed their night guard. For her, maybe, it was some semblance of normalcy they were craving to feel again.

“Yes please!”

“Alright, that’s an order of mozzarella sticks, French fries, and nachos with everything on it times two.” Chica listed off as she turned toward the pantry and fridges.

“Boy’s a walking bottomless pit.” Freddy grunted in remark as he moved to help her.

“Hey back off, big guy, I’m eating for two.” Mike pouted.

“Uh-huh.”

With nothing left to do but wait for both Bonnie and food, Mike wandered back into the Dining hall. He found himself beside the Security Puppet’s box before he realized it.

“Guess I should get you cleaned up first, SP.” Mike shrugged as he removed the lid and reached in. “See just how bad the damage is…”

So Mike went to work.

He was only vaguely aware of his coworkers, his family, moving around him as he settled into his job. With the exception of a now dozing Foxy, who didn’t seem interested in teaming up with Bonnie for once and exploring, the others stayed relatively chipper and active. Mike’s knee bobbed as he worked, alternating between muttering to himself and humming the theme of _My Grandfather’s Clock._ He jabbed a screwdriver into the back casing of the Security Puppet’s small black and stripped spine and jimmied the casing off, wincing at the sparks that followed.

“Son?” Came a grunt of warning, and the floor behind Mike quivered as Fazbear advanced, but Mike waved the big bear off, assuring him to relax.

“That was me, sorry. We’re good. She’s…she’s pretty out of it.” Not a great sign, to be truthful. But it also meant she wasn’t playing dead and was lying in wait to attack him either, as Freddy’s actions had suggested.

Chica came and delivered his food, which he dug into as he pulled the mess of wires from SP and made a mental list of parts he would need to replace. The food was usual Freddy’s Pizzeria fare, not fast food but not exactly gourmet, but Chica was good at what she did and, arguably, Mike was biased. Plus, he was hungry. Food _always_ tasted better when you were hungry, which Mike had learned fast when he realized Gold had jumped started his metabolism in order to exist together as Suit and Endoskeleton.

Bonnie wandered more than the other three due to his mapping system, but Mike could hear the twangs of the guitar the bunny refused to put down since they loaded into the van. To his left and up on the stage, Foxy rolled and stretched out, his exposed metal scraping the new wood softly, then settled back down with a huge, content sigh that made Mike chuckle. He heard a broom rustling along the floor, which meant good ‘ole Freddy had found the supply closet. Through the double doors of the kitchen, there were dishes and pots and pans clink-clanging mutedly.

It was so familiar to their own restaurant that if Mike thought about it too hard, his chest ached, tight with that nest of snakes from before. The only thing missing was…

_‘I miss you, Mari. I know I think this every time I talk to you, but I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you like you protected me.’_

There was no answer, because there never was.

With a shake of his head and a tired sigh, Schmidt turned his full attention back onto the little pile of Security Puppet spread out on the table before him.

“This won’t change anything…” He muttered, “But I need to try for you, SP. I’m the night guard, after all. I gotta look out for all of you.”

Haunted or not.

The hours ticked by, night deepening into its darkest hour. Some called it the Witching Hour. Mike Schmidt called it coffee hour.

Thanks to Golden Freddy, Mike needed much less sleep than the average human. Of course, there were some caveats, like his calorie intake shooting up, or his now instinctual aversion to being submerged in water. (Showers were alright, but Gold still got nervous around large bodies of water.) And Mike still needed _some_ sleep; it was just usually deeper and shorter than what was to be expected, even if Mike wasn’t nursing an injury Gold had to fix.

He wasn’t sure how Springtrap and Afton did it, because they were two entities stapled together and seemed to be running both consciousnesses at the same time, and he wasn’t sure if they slept at all—although he was sure they did. It had to be…stressful.

“Fuck that fucker.” Mike muttered softly as he fiddled in the back of the open Security Puppet. He wasn’t immediately cuffed like a naughty cub or old to dig his wallet out, so Freddy must be back in the supply closet.

“…I hope Springtrap’s doing alright…”

And, more to the point, Henry knew _something,_ of that Mike was sure. How much snooping could Mike do while staying under Henry’s radar and doing his task list?

“Maybe he’s trying to lure Afton here…he knew what went on last month, after all.” Despite his low voice, Bonnie heard him across the hall.

“Wonder how he knew all that?” Bonnie piped up in agreement. “You deactivated all the cameras so Baby and HandyUnit couldn’t find you.”

“Good point. I had forgotten that.”

“Maybe he don’t _need_ cameras to see. Ya don’t either, lad.” Was Foxy’s two cents, where he was laying contently on the stage, head resting on his cross arms and optics closed. Mike was sure Foxy was very much aware, even as he pretended to be taking a nap. Honestly, that was probably why Faz had wandered off from Mike so quickly, despite being in a new place and him working on a potentially haunted and dangerous little animatronic. Freddy loved Bonnie as all best friends did, but Foxy tended to be faster on his feet these days, worn suit aside.

“That too. But he didn’t _seem_ like a Suit.” Mike mused. “Although, I guess I’m having a hard time trusting my instincts lately, especially after what happened to Circus Baby.”

“She conned ya lad, it happens to all of us eventually.” Foxy said. “Ye should stop beating yerself up’bout it.”

Mike was silent in reply, which was rarely good coming from the talkative young man. He stared into SP’s blank optics that lay behind her little plastic mask and wondered what color they were when she was functioning. He still had the blue finder cuff on his wrist behind his watch because he planned to use it to test her out when—or if—he managed to get her online at all. None of the Fazes so much as blinked at him almost obsessively beginning to labor over the rusted and frozen puppet model. They knew better, and they weren’t keen on kicking Mike when he was down.

But they also knew—and Mike did as well—that the odds of the little puppet being haunted were closing down on slim to none. Rust didn’t stop ghosts, as seen by Springtrap and Afton. Or at least, it was rare for it to.

“Hey, Mike. Found yer office.” Bonnie paused, as if hesitant, before shrugging. “And…I, uh, I don’t think you’re gunna like it much.”

“Remember my first one?” Mike thought back to the cramped little room with a faint grin. He stood up, reverently setting Security Puppet onto her side. “It can’t be as bad as that.”

“Never say never, lad.” Foxy chuckled darkly as he watched the man walk after the bunny down a hall.

* * *

_‘You hear that, man?’_ He wheezed softly, the noise nearly inaudible. And even if it weren’t, no one else was around to hear them. Not _this_ deep in the overgrown woods, not _this_ late at night. A bitter wind shivered through, causing them to creak and their inner parts to whistle faintly. They rocked slowly, both tired and weary from running a frame in dire need of tlc. He’d worry about repairs later, what little he could do to his friend, anyway. Besides, it was his friend that needed the repairs. He was kind of…stuck as he was. Embalming fluid and all.

A guttural nod answered him. 

_‘I know. It’s driving me crazy.’_ A pause, as yellow, rotted feet shuffled in uncertainly toward the little building. They hung back in unease, hidden among the shrub and junk trees. At night, they blended in perfectly.

After a moment, the figure lurched forward with a firm snarl of decision.

The other voice, however, yelped in fright and tried to halt them, causing the single frame to wobble and jerk as it played tug of war with itself. The sight was strange to see indeed.

_‘Dude—wait! I mean—“_ A tired sigh. “ _Alright…but…keep your ears up. We’re not going in there yet, either. Something’s… **off.’**_

“Rowwl,” gurgled the other one, with another grumble of heavy assertion and a roll of its optics. His speakers had clogged long ago; only one of them could talk anymore, which was fine. The two understood each other perfectly, even if they had to separate to get a job done.

_‘Yeah, you’re right. If this is playing constantly, I bet Dad hears it too.’_ The voice which had been young but flat before, but now darkened in anxiety and anger.

_‘We can get him this time. I’m sure of it. This time, no one’s getting in our way.’_

With a growl of agreement, the zombified animatronic wrenched itself forward on unstable feet.

It was hard walking with two bodies in it, but this _was_ the quickest way they could travel, and so for now, it would have to do. He and his best friend were always close, after all. But dad had just decided to take it a step farther. Make things a little more permanent.

Whether Michael had agreed to this or not.

* * *

Mike walked into his new office. He turned in a slow circle. He stared. He sighed. And then he addressed the bunny on his heels.

“Funny, Bonnie. Where’s the rest of it?”

“This IS the rest of it, Mikey.” Bonnie’s ears ducked down to wedge himself better into the room—even then, the most he could do was lean his upper half into it. Freddy and Chica wouldn’t have fit in at all. Foxy might, if he stuck down on all fours and didn’t move, but if he did move too much he’d likely sweep Mike’s chair out from under him.

“You’re kidding.” Mike deadpanned.

“Sure ain’t.”

“This is it? This can’t be my office here—I mean—“ Mike spluttered, ignoring Bon’s snickers. “I’d get mad but I’m not sure I can fit another emotion in here!”

It was…small was an understatement. A better descriptor would be cramped, suffocating, or perhaps chillingly gloomy. A single over head was all the room could fit, and apparently all Henry deemed necessary for a security office. To Mike’s left and right was two gaping, rusted openings. Mike was tall and gangly, and the room was so narrow that if he stretched his fingertips out at full arms length, he could just touch the opposite vent openings.

“Where do those go?” He demanded, eyeing the dark squares with a wary eye.

“They connect the other rooms. That left one goes to a supply room, I think Fred found that already. The right one goes to the second smaller Arcade room on the other side of the building.”

“So if you guys are in the dining hall, you can’t reach me through either of these?”

“Naw. Well, maybe Foxy could, I’ve seen him cram himself in some pretty tight spaces but…” The bunny trailed off meaningfully, and Mike nodded.

“I get you, Bon. He’s had enough damage, I don’t need him taking off a chunk of shoulder in there, or worse, getting stuck. “Mike glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the bunny. “This is… _weird.”_

“Pretty odd, yeah. Whoever built this had _something_ in mind for the night guards, don’tcha think?” Bonnie watched Mike pick up the folded note from Henry that had their night guard’s name on it.

Mike’s grim glance and nod was all he offered the bunny.

“Old pc, too.” Well, not as old as what he used to contend with, so he tried to save his last remaining dregs of optimism and booted the old dinosaur up. The PC sat on a cramped desk, with only room for the monitor and maybe a cup of soda, if Mike was feeling risky. The damn keyboard was even shoved on a tray under the desk. 

“Who’s the white square? Am I the white square?” He studied the map further, blinking at the many buttons and switches.

The night guard’s finger hovered over a key, and he glanced outside to where Bonnie was lazily tuning his guitar, and eyed the bunny’s relatively lax and slumped over ears.

Mike smacked the Enter key.

The result was instantaneous; the purple bunny grumbled and twisted his head and ears all at once toward some far off noise, one that Mike couldn’t hear, not even with Gold’s boost.

But Bonnie wasn’t a dumb bunny, and Mike watched in fascination as the bunny’s previous look of excitement dimmed and he shifted, clutching his guitar in tight paws. Bonnie blinked several times, and you could practically hear his processor turning as he then rounded instantly on Mike.

“Did you do that?” He asked.

Mike nodded. “What did it sound like?”

“Like…a party.” Bonnie’s tone turned wistful before he shook off his gloom. “A really, _really_ convincing _awesome_ party. Full of lots of excited kids.”

That kicked a neuron in gear. Mike remembered Marion’s tales of the second restaurant, the one with the Toy models that came after the diner in the late 80’s.

“It’s to lead you guys from room to room, isn’t it?” Not unlike how Mike once had to lead Springtrap from room to room in his old amusement attraction. Interesting.

“Not us.” Bonnie snorted. _“We’re_ too smart to fall for that nonsense. We got you, remember?”

Mike smiled at the compliment from the bratty bunny. “Well, it’s to fool someone _like_ you guys, then. Someone like the Toy models. Someone not smart enough to second guess the sound clip.”

“Question is… _who?”_ Bonnie asked, but Mike had no answer. “I’ve got a map of the whole hopping place, dude. It’s just you, us and SP. No one’s even outside in the back alley, Mike.”

The night guard had almost nothing in the way of answers, and it was starting to annoy him. He went back to the monitor, trying to familiarize himself with the tabs and their subsequent pages.

“Tasks….Motion D….Audio…and Vent.” Mike’s heart sank. “Great. I gotta order supplies, check advertising…”

“Don’t forget maintenance and equipment.” Bonnie shrugged. “So? You used to do all that back when _we_ were running.”

“Yeah, back when I wasn’t being hunted for sport because Afton’s nephew had uncle-issues.” Mike’s shoulders sank.

“…oh yeah, that’s right. The Marionette showed you how to do everything, didn’t he? You didn’t get on the job training from Afton’s nephew…well, except the whole, ‘tried to shove your scrawny butt in a suit’ business.” And when Marion wasn’t helping Mike, he was protecting the frightened kid. Bonnie knew that Mike technically had more in the way of defense—the original four and even Golden Freddy himself—but that still didn’t mean Mike wasn’t hurting from the similarities of this place compared to his first five nights back at the Pizzeria.

But not everything could be replicated. The real stuff, the best parts of life, maybe weren’t supposed to be.

“Yeah, I did.” Mike’s little cloud of self-doubt and worry was shoved out of mind when there was a small scuffle from under the cramped desk.

Mike yipped in fright, and so did Bonnie, and both watched with tense postures as a fat, round little animatronic waddled himself out into the light. The little guy was wholly silent, save for his small processors that whirred softly, like someone humming under their breath. He was small; maybe the same height as Plushtrap had been, coming up to just under Mike’s knee. New, shiny plastic aqua eyes clicked up to Mike’s face, and the tiny bear jumped in place happily, a smile spreading on its little face as if in immediate recognition.

“What the fudgesticks is _that?”_ Bonnie demanded in instant dislike, as Mike blinked and knelt down with slow movements, hoping to convince the little Funtime Freddy model to come closer.

He didn’t have to wait long, because the mini-Freddy hurried over into his space without a trace of fear, patting the man’s bent knee with a little plastic paw several times, still smiling happily. Despite himself, Mike returned the warm smile as he eyed the little guy.

“You gotta name, buddy?” Mike asked in amusement, instantly relieved for another distraction from this ever-worrying nightmare of a situation. “Henry didn’t say anything about you…”

The bear tapped a stubby paw to his pastel pink cheek, seeming to ponder something over before he turned and helped himself up into the rolly chair. Because he was just as tall as the low seat, it took some doing, but soon he was leaning over the keyboard tray. Mike rose with him, watching with interest as the little bot pointed to the lettered keys.

“Can you type your name?” They seemed to be on the same page, thankfully. The little bear already had more together than HandyUnit it seemed, which frankly was a relief for Mike.

_H… E… L… P...Y._ typed the bear.

“…Helpy?” Mike’s grin widened. “Ohh…I get it. Okay, Helpy, welcome to the team, you adorable little shit.”

“You just like him because he’s a Freddy model.” Bonnie scoffed, but his optics stayed trained on the small funtime model with interest. “He doesn’t talk. How’s **that** helpful?”

“No, but he _does_ seem pretty sophisticated as far as AI’s go…I mean, he must have been programmed to recognize me, right? He’s not hostile either.” Mike snorted when Helpy tried getting off the rolly chair and landed flat on his back with a sharp crack, and the man jumped at the horrifying sound. “Crap—you okay!?”

Helpy sat up a moment later, shook himself and stood, only to immediately wander around Bonnie’s legs and out into the hall, apparently unconcerned about his fall.

“Guess that’s a yes.” Bonnie cackled, backing up out of Mike’s way as the night guard shadowed the little bear easily with his long legs, who was bee-lining for the little play area for younger kids.

“Uh, Helpy…?” Mike called.

“Check that list Henry left you, maybe there’s something in there about him.”

“Good idea, Bon.” Mike dug the paper out, unfolding it while he kept an eye on the little white and purple bear that was making his way to the carpeted area, stopping to stare at the retro confetti illustrated on the floor of the play section.

_‘Mike,_

_How do you like your office? I know it is smaller than what you were likely anticipating, but I assure you it’s up to code, and that I had my reasons for the layout of this building, which I’m sure you understand. Someone who survived past the first five nights at Freddy’s has likely seen worse than anything my humble establishment has to offer. Perhaps this will be like a vacation for you!_

_However, your job isn’t over yet. There is a list of tasks on the computer in your office. I have organized them by repetition—some you have to do every night you choose to work here. Some are only once._

_Please also test out the play area and the arcade machines, do any repairs they require and keep them in prime shape for our Grand Opening. Please ensure Candy Cadet does not _(Not was underlined twice, so clearly this was a problem with poor Candy Cadet.) _give away too much candy on his test runs._

_Do not worry about funds for the jobs listed on your computer either, as they come out of petty cash. I will have another VERY important job for you to do each morning at the end of your shift that is for you and you alone. It will be a chance for you to make some more money, and for me to grow my restaurant. We will discuss this when, that is, IF, the opportunity arises, but I have a feeling it will very soon._ (“Cryptic.” Bonnie said wryly.)

_I will have more notes for you in the coming days, as well as more instructions. Thank you for your time, I know this will be an interesting time for us both, and that we will learn a lot about each other.’_

_-Henry_

Mike blinked, trailing off before reading the last words a second time.

_‘P.S:_ _Please take care of Helpy_ _. No matter your problems, big or small, he will help you solve them.’_

“Uh...it says I have to test the play area. But I think I’m too tall…”

“And the arcade games~” said Bonnie, having read the note over Mike’s shoulder. “I call those, me and Foxy haven’t played air hockey since ours lit on fire!” 

“And I think Helpy’s testing the play area, look.”

Indeed, the fat little bear-bot had made his way up the ladder of the toddler sized jungle-gym and was leaping down the slide. He flew behind first into the ball pit, most of which sprayed across the floor and rolled merrily in great bids for freedom at the sudden force of his entry. Mike, Bonnie and now a curious Foxy watched the brightly colored balls scatter across the floor, and kept staring when Helpy’s second jump sent even more balls flying.

“…okay. First project; get a net wall for the ball pit.” Mike drawled tiredly as he watched Helpy hurry up the steps for a third slide.

There was another spray of plastic balls from the pit.

Bonnie and Foxy cackled.

* * *

Despite Henry’s friendly worded letter and oddly mysterious words of advice, Helpy soon proved to be more nuisance than outwardly helpful. His namesake implied nothing more than small, tiny terror, as he proceeded to spend the rest of the night and into the early am toddling around, poking his plastic nose into anything and everything he decided looked interesting enough. And, apparently to little Helpy, _everything_ was interesting enough.

The ballpit made sense. It was fun, and Helpy seemed attracted to all things both interesting and fun. He spent most of his time wandering around fiddling with the younger kid’s games. Mike was glad he was too short to reach the taller arcade games, most of which looked so shiny and new he was afraid Helpy would break them instead of finding any minor tweaks they needed. He made a mental note to have Foxy and Bonnie check out some of the arcade games tomorrow night, and perhaps a few for himself. Helpy had somehow found his way into the kitchen, where he spooked poor Chica and tried to crawl into the open ovens she was cleaning. Bonnie complained when Mike snatched Helpy out, but only received an amused glower from Mike for his troubles.

Mike heard the low growling start up and years of well-trained instincts made him freeze in his tracks. Only for him to realize what and _who_ it was and he turned, launching his thin body at the stage and grabbing Helpy bodily around his rotund midsection as deadly long jaws snapped down where the tiny bearbot had been, still cluelessly holding a healthy fistful of poor Foxy’s ragged, stringy tail. Said tail switched in displeasure as Foxy eyed Helpy and then, with a more flatter, bothered stare, up at their night guard.

“Sorry Foxy.” Mike apologized sheepishly, hoping to buttered the grumpy old fox up. “I’ll keep a better eye on him, honest.”

“He be more trouble than he’s worth, lad.” Foxy advised, snorting as he watched Helpy wiggle, his optics on something across the long hall, tiny paw releasing the strands of tail he had been tugging happily on only seconds ago. Foxy’s dangerous and deadly maw nearly beheading him (or at least causing some good dents) seemed of no concern to oblivious Helpy.

“Ain’t programmed right, is what it is. What use is a captain-knockoff who can’t use his processor for some blasted common sense, eh? S’dumber than a jellyfish.”

On the one hand, Mike had to agree. But on the other, he had a feeling he knew what this was _really_ about.

“I’m tired too, buddy, but it’s only our first night.” Mike kept his tone calm but let his exhaustion show, and it worked. Foxy softened and shook himself out like a dog, less attack-mode and more resigned suddenly, mirroring Mike’s emotions. His family loved him, and many things had changed overnight on them all—but not that comforting, assured fact.

Mike set the little bear down.

“And we’ve fixed a lot of problems or issues thanks to Helpy getting into stuff he shouldn’t. I guess that was Henry’s plan all along…it’s not like _he’s_ young enough to chase after him…”

“You yourself barely are, son!” Freddy responded.

Foxy pitched a snort over his shoulder, as he had risen and wandered across the stage while Mike spoke, but the old Captain was listening. He always was. Choosing a new spot that would let him see if Helpy was coming at him again to pester and tug and bother him, Foxy settled on his side with a careless flop, ragged ears twitching upward in interest as he spied something over Mike’s shoulder.

“Looks like he found yer new little project, Mikey. M’sure his clumsy efforts will _certainly_ help you get the little lass up and runnin’.” Foxy seemed all too pleased to tattle on Helpy, and Mike blinked in confusion and surprise. He twisted in place with a quirked brow, jumping in horror when he saw Helpy rooting around little Security Puppet’s exposed spine, her delicate workings sparking and jolting as he did this.

“Wha—hey! Hey, cut that out! _F-Freddy!”_ Mike shouted, earning the attention of Bonnie from over by the ball pit, as well as Freddy, who stalked toward the table with speed betraying his large girth because he was always, always, there for Mike when the guy called for him. 

“Stop that.” Freddy growled immediately at Helpy, grabbing the plastic bear by his small scruff in a giant worn paw and lifting him up and away from the mess he was causing.

Helpy only smiled, swinging his tiny arms and legs as he swung breezily in Fazbear’s tight grip. Freddy frowned at this obliviousness and gave the little thing a good jostle for emphasis, stopping when Helpy seemed to understand he was in trouble and his shiny, sweet-natured features turned unsure and uncomfortable, and he froze in place obediently.

Mike, who had leapt off the stage and trotted over while forcing himself to stay calm, grabbed hold of Security Puppet and shifted her off her side, keeping her carefully face down as he checked and rechecked.

“He do any damage?” Freddy glanced at the rusted, creaking jumble of puppet parts. “Wull…any… _more,_ damage?”

“…no, don’t think so.” Mike’s lips puckered in thought, and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “He just—I think he _connected_ some parts. Why? That doesn’t make sense, it’s not like she’s going to just—“

Beneath his hands, Security Puppet’s arm twitched. Then it jerked. She leaned herself across the table, sparks flying for a few seconds. She went from dead-still to motion so sharply Mike jumped a mile, right against Freddy who moved to block him from whatever had startled the night guard, only for Freddy and Mike to realize what was happening, that SP _was_ alive, she was moving. Maybe not well, and that added nothing to her charm, certainly. But she was back online, just like that.

The Puppet, Mike thought, had always moved like water, or draped silk. His wooden joints seemed fluid and free, only his chilly porcelain face was frozen—his carved smile stayed solid and gaping-wide whether he was happy, or sad or angry. The eye holes in the mask _were_ able to move stiffly, crinkling or widening in minor adjustments that Mike only noticed because he was often so close to the lurking, protective Puppet. He was so very Lifelike, haunted or not, that Mike was shocked to watch the robotic, scattered movements of the onlined Security Puppet. Was it because of the damage to her joints?

Or was it because she was normal, and decidedly **not** haunted? Had Marion moved like this before he tied himself down to the Crying Child?

And why did _that_ thought hurt Mike as much as watching this small puppet ineptly scramble from him in abject terror?

“Holy gumdrops!” Bonnie, who had wandered over in hopes of watching Helpy get in trouble, spooked not unlike a rabbit when he noticed Security Puppet’s jerky, creepy motions across the table away from their equally startled night guard. His long ears shot upright as he retreated right back—Security Puppet was moving, zombie-like, in his direction now. Until Bonnie yelped, only then did her small head rise, and she twitched as if in fright, or as if hit, and immediately altered directions. Her butter-yellow optics flickered erratically, and she spied her box and crawled for it, desperately.

“Wait—Wait, SP,” but Mike was ignored, the slender animatronic crammed herself into her box with a tiny, miserable jingle. Her arm jerked out to grab the lid and slap her little box shut atop her little self imposed prison.

Silence reigned.

“…well. That went…well.” Bonnie finally managed.

Freddy shot the bunny a look, and all of them—even clueless Helpy, glanced at Mike who was standing there with a strange look on his face.

“…son?” Freddy broached delicately, hoping to break the spell of Mike’s helpless, heartbroken stare at the closed off, silent gift box. Mike twitched once, twice, then shook his head. He drew back from Freddy’s comfort as if he didn’t deserve it, and his entire frame seemed to deflate.

“…uhm, I’m gunna go…gunna get some coffee from Chica.”

Mike walked to the kitchen. He was too proud to run.

“What did he expect, Faz?” Bonnie, to his credit, kept his voice down as Mike slunk through the doors and out of earshot. “It’s obvious SP’s not…yanno, like _us.”_

“Still could be a chance, Bon.” The old bear reminded softly. “I can’t believe I’m almost hoping for that, because it’ll mean she was a kid once too, and that’ll mean she was…”

The pregnant pause answered them enough. From across the stage, Foxy lifted his head in interest.

“Don’t sense nuthin’, Cap’n.” Foxy informed before Freddy could ask. “I can ask Alex next time I see him, but his visits are far and few between these nights…ain’t much need for him anymore.”

Which _was_ good. Mike liked Nightmare Foxy a lot, and whether he knew or not that Nightmare Foxy was actually Alex Afton was up for debate. If he did, he might try to help the kid to the other side, but Foxy knew Alex would have none of it. Alex’s punishment was here on Earth, and even though Foxy himself adored the lad a great deal due to their time together, he agreed. The Nightmares needed to be contained anyway, lest they go searching for a new Crying Child to torment—or worse, try causing trouble for Mike.

“Foxy’s the best at ghost-huntin’ but I don’t sense anything either. I can hear her, though.” Bonnie’s big ears twitched as he studied the miserable little box. “She’s pretty spooked, Faz. I don’t think she’s able to work the floor like Mike wanted. It’s just us and Mike here, and she went to pieces and scrambled like an egg.”

Which made Freddy stop and think. Bonnie had a good point. Several actually.

“So which is it?” Freddy wondered, half to himself and half to his best friend.

“Whaddya’mean?” Bonnie asked.

“Is the little whippersnapper more afraid of _us,_ or _Michael?”_ asked Freddy.

Foxy and Bonnie shared a look. _Oh._

“Good point.” Bonnie mused. “Those are two very different things, aren’t they.” With two very different outcomes, too. And they adored their night guard, but he was stubborn as his favorite animatronic even on his best nights.

“She didn’t attack the lad,” Foxy recalled carefully. “And he was holding onto her, even! Had her right round her middle. Perfect striking distance, if she wanted. Lad coulda lost an eye. Well,” Foxy thought about Mike’s one golden eye, _“’nother_ one, anyway.” 

“Naw, she just tried to get away from him. Which, okay, Mike’s kinda a harmless scarecrow but if he was behind her how could she know that? And _you_ were right next to him, Freddy. And you _are_ scary when you’re mad,” Bonnie meant it as a compliment, but they all had seen Freddy’s glare when he snatched Helpy up.

“And then she saw me and…” Bonnie trailed off, his point made.

“Made a beeline fer yer lil ship right there.” Foxy finished, nodding as he mulled this over. “Ah, yanno…‘nother thing that just struck me’ mind…”

“Yes, Foxy?” Freddy asked.

“Fer as scary as ya are, Cap’n, there’s something **else** in Mikey that is bigger than all of us.” Foxy reminded gravely. “Something that makes even old Afton cower like a minnow. An’ haunted or not, all of us, even the blasted Toys, can sense **that** old monster…”

All three animatronics lapsed into thoughtful silence.

“She didn’t sense Gold.” Bonnie hummed. “Maybe she _can’t.”_

Another piece to the puzzle that was the odd little Security Puppet.

“What’s she doing, Bon?’ Freddy finally demanded. He started to walk away, some questions of his own answered but some more cropped up, like mushrooms after the rain. He needed to think about all of this. He hoped whatever it was, it wouldn’t hurt Mike.

“…nuthin. Just curled up in there.” Bonnie paused, one ear crooking downward before he drew back with a disturbed glance on his features, following Freddy across the hall.

“I think she’s crying.”

* * *

Mike was drowning his sorrows in hot chocolate—Chica wouldn’t let him have any more coffee, and for once he couldn’t blame her—when he felt a little tug at his pant leg. He snorted in surprise, spit out a marshmallow before he choked on it, and glanced down, blinking.

Helpy beamed up at him and pointed a fat finger up at Mike’s elbow, and Mike snorted in amused reflex.

“Wondered where you gotten off to, little bear. Hey, can Helpy come on the counter, Chi?” Mike asked politely before he just reached.

“Hmm…well, I suppose. I haven’t wiped them down yet… Just make sure to keep an eye on him, chickadee.” Chica reminded cheerfully before she turned back to the walk in. She didn’t like their organization system apparently, and was fixing it. Her sense of tidiness was mostly her but somewhat copied from Freddy, which had always been adorable to Mike.

“Will do.” Mike hummed, and soon Helpy was up on the counter where he wanted to be. The little guy glanced around in awe at the height and, naturally, toddled off toward the empty sink. He kept walking and immediately fell into it, looking so startled at gravity that he caused poor Mike to choke on his drink as Freddy and Bonnie walked in.

“Ya’alright, son?” Freddy sounded more worried than amused, but Bonnie laughed at him.

“M’good,” Mike was and he wasn’t. But he couldn’t pick apart the events that happened just before this. Mike didn’t have it in him, he was tired. And he had some questions for Henry anyway that would have to wait until he saw the man again. “How is…she…?”

“Fine.” Said Freddy, which was a lie and a truth. Freddy was good at those, always had been. “Just give her time. This is a big change fer all of us, yourself included. I know what it seems like…to all of us, but this ain’t _our_ restaurant.”

Which was something everyone needed to hear, not just Mike.

Foxy, who had wandered in just in time to hear this, grunted in agreement.

“Besides, ain’t even gotta cove fer poor ole’ Foxy.” He spied Helpy heading for the row of electric mixing bowls and moved in before Chica could see, shooing the little pest away.

“Yanno, I was thinking about that.” Mike downed the last of his coco with a gulp and stood for the sink, drawing Helpy’s ever endless curiosity. “I saw _four_ stage ports. I’d assume for remodels of you guys. But I haven’t seen them, have you…? Not in Parts and Services, or just hanging around in a corner.”

“We haven’t checked out that building behind this one, Mike.” Bon reminded, seeing Freddy’s look and nod of encouragement. When in doubt, distract Mike with something new, or the potential to find _more_ animatronics and study up on them. “I tried, but I can’t hear through the walls of _this_ joint, let alone into somewhere _new.”_

Mike twisted, shooting the rabbit an alarmed look over his shoulder. “That’s right. I thought it was because there was nothing to hear,” and originally so did Bonnie it seemed. “But you’d pick up ambiance noises, wouldn’t you. Hmm…you think lead?”

“Could be.” Bonnie mused. “Sure can’t hear through that, after all.”

No Bonnie model could, in fact. It was an old trait carried over from Springbonnie, due to limitations by technology at that age. It had been kept however, maybe because the people who’d built the Bonnie models had realized those ears could do more harm than good. Mike had checked it out a long time ago, and wasn’t surprised to learn the hidden room off the old restaurant had been lined with lead. 

“Either way…I’m supposed to check over _everything._ Animatronics included.” Mike scrubbed the mug and huffed his bangs out of his eyes.

“It’d be nice to know what we’re being replaced with.” Freddy agreed, with much more bite in his words than perhaps he meant. None of it was aimed at Mike, but the night guard shot Freddy a warm look of sympathy nonetheless. He finished drying the mug and set it upside down, then grabbed Helpy before he could trip over said mug and set him down on the tile. Undaunted, Helpy wandered toward Foxy’s dangling tail, and received a snap of warning from the fox’s big jaws that caused him to cheerfully change directions and waddle for the walk-in to watch Chica organize and sort frozen food.

“Think I’ll check it out. You wanna come with, big guy?” Mike hummed, already knowing the answer, but the firm nod made him smile. “Bonnie?”

“Sure, I’m off the clock.” The rabbit teased. “Just lemme put my guitar on stage.”

“Figure not, but anyone else wanna?” the night guard asked the rest of his coworkers.

“Count me out, lad. I’ll help cook with her sortin’ o’provisions.”

Chica giggled, “Thank you Captain Foxy~ Mike, why don’t you take Helpy? He seems to keep searching for you. When he’s not distracted, that is.”

Bonnie grumbled a noise of detest at Helpy tagging along, but when Freddy didn’t argue, he too relented. Freddy remembered Plushtrap. He’d take help for Mike where he could, tiny annoying plastic bears aside.

“Got yer light?’ Fazbear grunted down to Mike as they headed for the back door Bonnie had found in the spare room behind Parts and Services. It was a strange, dark square, with one table and two chairs set up like an interrogation center. Mike had absolutely no clue what it was for, and Helpy didn’t seem interested in it. They moved through the room, man and bearbot and bunnybot and smaller bearbot, Mike’s keys jingling on his hip.

“Always do.” Mike assured.

The alleyway was nothing overly exciting. Bonnie informed them both of a strange buzzing pitch that he clearly didn’t like, and Mike wondered if it was the little lampposts down at either end of the tiny longways space.

“Well whatever it is, it’s annoying.” Bonnie gripped as Freddy chuckled.

“Don’t hear it, big guy?” Mike asked Fazbear, who seemed at ease and unimpressed by the alley as much as Mike did.

“Sure don’t. But my ears ain’t what they used to be—and even when they were, they weren’t nuthin’ like Bon’s.”

Mike shrugged and wandered over the threshold. “Fair enough. Let’s see…”

But Mike did not get to ‘lets see’ anything.

A tinkle of a bell caught his attention. It was faint, but Bonnie’s ears swiveled directly behind him and Mike turned too, realizing it wasn’t just his imagination.

He jerked in surprise when Security Puppet’s lithe frame was just. _Floating_ there, her optics wide and flared, a pretty shade of blue that looked familiar. Mike blinked, then glanced down quickly where her optics were locked.

“..oh.” he lifted his wrist, the one with his watch and the blue band he had put on early. Her optics glowed the same shade as the blue band. She stared at him, little open mouth of her split mask turned down. She had been smiling when Mike had found her…but now…

_‘Her mask moves. I don’t think it should, though. It’s hard plastic.’_ Mike felt ice creep up his spine.

“…uhm…oops.” Mike glanced at the doorway leading back to the restaurant.

“...what’s blue for?” Her whispered to his looming bookends of animatronics. “What age group?”

“Think Henry said teenagers?” Freddy rumbled, watching with obvious interest in his glass eyes. “Lowest priority.”

“You went into the kitchen and Parts and Services and she didn’t do nuthin.” Bonnie reminded with a look.

“True…but I left the building…and didn’t give back the bracelet.” Mike realized, feeling somewhat stunned. “She still works!”

The little puppet’s bell jingled at Mike’s voice, but her mouth wasn’t moving—oh, no, that was her. Those were the noises she just _made,_ combined with soft stressed sounds of machinery. Her rusty joints creaked as she edged closer to Mike, reaching for his wrist with shy, spindly fingers.

Her optics fell on Freddy and she flinched, looking distraught as she glided backwards. And then forwards, sliding towards Mike as if she expected to be yelled at, but wholly determined to get to him in spite of it. 

“You…want me to go back inside, sweetie?” Mike kept his voice gentle and sweet, usually reserved for an angry Fazbear or frazzled Mangle.

Her entire frame seemed to vibrate, and the bell-like noises pitched lower, in some form of agreement. Higher pitches seemed to mean stress, and lower ones more calm and assertive. Freddy and Bonnie and even little, clueless Helpy who was staring down the alleyway at nothing got the higher pitches. Like they were all someone to be afraid of. It was Mike she seemed to be pleading with.

So Mike let her tug and then took a step toward the door, receiving a quick series of nods and a noise of relief from the clearly frightened and stressed little Security Puppet.

“Alright, alright, let me just…”

Security Puppet eyed Freddy and Bonnie distrustfully, and yanked on Mike’s arm when they moved to follow him in. Her noises weren’t so much aggressive as they were blatantly warning, the jingle-jangle of her little frame reverberating as she edged between Mike and the two Fazes. Mike was so surprised he let it happen, and anyway, she was half his height. She wasn’t exactly blocking him even remotely from view.

_“Ooooh,”_ said Bonnie, and then fell silent and frowned lightly. His ears leaned back in Bonnie-body-language for _dislike_ and _insult,_ and this caught Mike’s attention.

“What is it?”

“She thinks we’re—we’re not us.” Bonnie scowled. “Yanno—that we’re _Empty Suits_ filled with—”

_“Adults_ inside.” Freddy sounded none too pleased, but he seemed less tense than before. Mike considered the possibilities, and his lips parted into a soft o shape.

“…so SP thinks you’re taking me somewhere to—“ ‘A secondary location to murder me’ sounded too strange, so Mike left it at that. Bonnie, insulted and irritated, did not leave it. He was pissed. 

“Stuff you like **cheese inside a crust.”** Bonnie smiled darkly, gnashing his teeth at the little Security Puppet, who jumped and pressed back into Mike’s shoulder with a twang of anxiety and unease. ‘See!?’ her startled chime seemed to cry at Mike, who had to fight a laugh at the idea of his family hurting him.

“Stop that.” Mike scolded the bunny in warning. “SP doesn’t know, she’s just trying to follow her programming. **I** know you two would never hurt me, but _she_ doesn’t. Play nice, Bonnie.”

“Tch.” replied the insulted bunnybot. Maybe Mike was Freddy’s, but at the end of the day he truly was all of theirs and Bonnie models in particular didn’t share well.

“Look, let’s get inside.” Mike said, ever the mediator. “Fred, grab Helpy, he’s heading down the alleyway—See Security? I’m going, you did great, coming to check on me when I wandered too far, SP…”

Security Puppet jingled loudly at him in her own type of praise, gliding after him. The Puppet could float too but she seemed more…mechanical about it. Perhaps she was haunted, but the human soul was buried so deep or had left before SP could learn how to function more convincingly. Mike didn’t know, only knew what he had to compare her to.

_‘And she’s nothing like Marion so far. She’s so…skittish, and almost obsessed on her original coding. Which is fine, but…if she can’t relearn certain things, or draw new ‘if and then’ statements like all AI’s can do…that might mean her AI is busted.’ _

Despite her ability to understand them, SP still seemed to have trouble understanding who they were, which was fine with Mike so long as she didn’t get aggressive Freddy or Bonnie. It’s not a fight she would win, even he knew that. And she had enough damage done to her already. He was just glad Freddy wasn’t as insulted as Bonnie was over the assumption they were trying to steal Mike away to kill him.

Which had always been a sore subject for Fazbear, but it reminded Mike how much Freddy had grown when all he did was seem tolerantly bemused by little SP trying to shield Mike from him. Of course, Freddy still didn’t like other Adults, but Mike supposed some wounds never healed. He had a feeling if SP was a human trying to do this, Bonnie would be the least of Mike’s worries, and Security would be going back to her box in pieces whether Mike liked it or not.

By the time they got to the main room by the stage, her optics had faded back to soft white, and she seemed far, far less engaged with Mike.

And then she was back in her box, soft optics peering out from the gloom one last time, sweeping the room almost robotically. Of course, there was no one else, Mike had only removed and activated one band. 

“SP, wait, maybe you should—“

Her lid closed with a soft jangle and that was the end of it.

While it was almost exactly what happened earlier, it felt far different for Mike, who sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and turned, smiling when he saw Freddy and Bonnie eyeing him.

“Uh…let’s check out the other building tomorrow, yeah? I’ll make sure to take off her security-band, obviously…”

“Obviously.” Bonnie snorted.

Mike shot the bunny another warning look, but softened.

“Give me a hand with the rocket game, Bon. Helpy tripped over the plug twice, we gotta tape it down or move it or something, and I’ll need your help.”

He didn’t, not really. And if he did need muscle usually he asked Freddy.

Bonnie tossed him a look that clued Mike in to the fact he knew what the night guard was up to. But he apparently didn’t care—or perhaps he was that rattled—because he nodded.

“Fine, don’t need ta beg, jeez.”

“Turn on your music, Bugs, it’s been years since I heard _Aerosmith.”_

That finally earned a pleased smirk from the lavender rabbit, and Mike mirrored it. He wasn’t afraid of them, and hadn’t been for years. That wasn’t going to change overnight, not because they changed settings, not because a Puppet-look-alike acted like they were someone to fear. Someone to distrust.

Mike was their family, and they were his.

* * *

A very tired night guard was just trying to catch up on some shut eye when it happened.

It happened rather quickly, _there-and-gone_ and all he had left to go off was the phantom rush of adrenaline. Gold snapped to life in his bones, every single chilled hair on Mike’s body on edge. His poor tired mind literally went from zero to sixty in the span of seconds, one side of him ready to fight and the other still wishing he was at home in his little room in the restaurant, asleep and cozy. A chill snaked down Mike’s spine, and his bony frame jerked from the slouched position against Freddy’s warm side, where he had tucked himself up as the two sat on the stage. Mike was good at sleeping anywhere, had mastered the most odd positions and places long ago. His favorite spot aside from the little cot in the Prize Room was usually against Fazbear himself, who was warm and familiar and would stay awake and watch for anything so Mike could recharge his own human batteries.

Gold growled and kicked Mike’s spooked nerves into gear. Mike jolted as if shocked and yelped comically loud.

“Wha’issit?! M’up, les’go—I, Fru-ehddy?“

“Steady, Michael.” Freddy’s deep voice rumbled through him, and Mike instantly relaxed, shushing poor Gold in his bones who grunted but acquiesced obediently. Senses relaxing from their high drive, he realized the restaurant wasn’t sleeping anymore. Night had come but was going. He heard Bonnie’s radio playing in the kitchen, the last trails of some _Led Zeppelin_ tune he couldn’t recall at the moment leaking to him, and over that, was Foxy’s low snoring from behind him, where the old seadog had flopped down to provide a wall for Mike to sleep against. That was why he wasn’t cold, then. Mike took another steadying breath, and smelled the sweetness of Chica’s French Toast, his mouth watering instantly. His eyes flicked to the wide windows by the double doors.

It was nearly morning. Sunrise. First night down. Six to go.

Mike regarded the entire room tiredly.

“But I felt…” He mumbled sleepily, sounding like he had been gargling marbles. He scrubbed a fist into his good eye and winced, shaking himself as he rolled up. He collected lean limbs under him, checked to make sure he hadn’t tipped his now lukewarm hot chocolate right off the stage—he hadn’t, but only because Freddy had grabbed it some time ago and was still holding it in a careful paw—and stared across the dining hall.

It was pitch black, but Mike could _see_ it. Could just make out that string of square pearly teeth. The tiny dots of eyes above them. The smile that venomously curved upward when it saw Mike finally looking at it.

Mike, despite himself, shivered.

“Shadow You’s never left our restaurant, right? Not that you knew of?” Mike breathed to his best friend and current pillow, keeping his skinny side pressed against the sitting animatronic bear’s large flank.

He felt more than heard Fazbear shake his head. Nope. _Never._ A change in the pattern.

“Okay. But he has now. He’s here.” Mike swallowed, squinting as his eyes glowed a faint gold. The room brightened, at least, for Mike it did.

“What d’ya think he wants?”

“To start trouble?” Fazbear growled, eyeing the faintly purple Shadow Freddy, who remained staring at Mike. “Want me ta chase him off, son?”

Mike’s jaw worked, and he thought.

“…no. No, I wanna see what he does. If anything. But let the others know he’s skulking around here.” Mike studied the fuzzy outline of the eerie ghost. “He usually heralds some problem, even if he doesn’t outright cause it…”

Shadow Freddy was an odd one. And he was much more active, at least he was ever since Shadow Bonnie had vanished on them.

_‘Shadow Bonnie was connected to Danny somehow—he left after Danny did that August, nine years ago. After we beat Nightmare. I never did figure out why Shadow Freddy is still skulking around.’ _

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to yet. In a place like Freddy’s, most everything had a reason, and a time and place.

And it wasn’t up to humans to decide when and where, Mike had learned that lesson too. It was also a lesson he learned the hard way.

Mike moved to sit back, his spine relaxing against Foxy’s strong shoulders as he eyed Shadow Freddy. Shadow Freddy eyed him right back. Mike’s lips pursed, and he shot a proprietary glance across the big main room.

Nothing was out of place, not that watchful Mike could see. SP’s box was exactly where he had left it, on the table he had been repairing her on. Helpy was sitting back against it, tiny paws clasped over his belly and shiny eyes closed and tiny body doing some strange by-himself-no-stage-needed-charge that Mike wasn’t used to the animatronics doing.

When Mike looked back, Shadow Freddy was gone.

“Oh…kay.”

Freddy snorted loudly. “Good riddance.”

Mike heard a creak of joints and a rough yawning noise. He reached back, absently patting the old pirate Captain, who growled in friendly greeting when he noticed Mike just leaning on him.

“One night down, lad.” Foxy remarked, eyeing the spot where Shadow Freddy had been. Freddy had to hand it to the old seadog—he still was their best ghost spotter, even ones who tried to hide from him. Because neither Mike nor Freddy seemed in attack mode, Foxy took their cue and only stared lazily at the spot where the ghost bear had stood.

“Sure is, Captain.” Mike sighed. “So why do I feel like _this_ day isn’t ever gunna end?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Local man doing his goddamn best, more at eleven.


	3. Lefties Have Rights Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincidentally, the author is a lefty when it comes to writing and so was very delighted to make this title. (I’m a righty with almost everything else…mouse is right handed. Eating is both, but cutting with knives is left. Throwing over handed is right, but underhanded is left. Otherwise I’ll take out an eye.)

"The slithery-Dee, he came out of the sea  
he ate all the others...but he didn't eat **me."** _  
-Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark_ ** _  
_**

* * *

**ACT I  
Chapter 3. Lefties Have Rights Too**

Henry showed up about two hours after Mike finished his breakfast, and was eyeing SP’s closed and silent box thoughtfully when the man’s keys unlocked the front doors and he stepped in, leaning on his cane heavily.

“You’re still here!” was the first thing Henry said before even a good morning. “Good job, Schmidt. I can see why you’re the night guard.”

“Thanks.” Mike drawled, and then immediately wondered what was here that would make him leave. “And thank _you_ for the note about Helpy. He’s certainly…something.”

“Ain’t he a pip?” If Henry noticed or cared about Mike’s ruffled feathers, the old man was certainly good at pretending he didn’t notice them.

“Besides, I heard from a little birdy you had a soft spot for them Freddy models. I figured you might not mind one more, eh?” Henry grinned because he seemed to know he was right, for Mike lapsed into sheepish agreeable silence, shrugging with one shoulder.

“This new one’s _Something_ too, truth be told. He’s going to be your first project, in fact! Don’t that sound fun?”

Finally, they were getting somewhere. Mike nodded, moving to follow the man eagerly.

“Ah-ah, first things first. Take that doo-hickey off, if you please.” Henry gestured with his cane tip to Mike’s wrist. “Go on, nice and quick. Even if she isn’t on yet, we don’t need one of her expensive bands getting lost.”

Henry eyed the three Fazes standing on stage, each and every one of them silent and still. He didn’t even look at Foxy, who was standing in the same pose as he’d been set in yesterday against the back corner by the stage. Helpy wandered over from the ball pit as Mike set his finder-bracelet down by SP’s box, hoping if she saw it sitting there she wouldn’t jump to the conclusion he had lost it or it had been torn off, as perhaps her fearful programming might assume. For once, he desperately did not want the little puppet to come looking for him, especially like she had last afternoon. Mike was afraid if Henry saw SP malfunctioning he wouldn’t be happy, or worse, would think Mike tampered with her.

“Bonnie show you your office?” Henry asked conversationally as he shuffled toward Parts and Services. Mike guessed they were headed through that room, then the second interrogation room as he began calling it, and out to the long morton building out back.

“Ah—yeah, he did. Sir, is—“ Mike started.

“Henry,” the man interrupted.

“Henry, right, is that…uhm…all of it?”

“What more would you need?” Henry asked with such honest surprise Mike truthfully couldn’t tell if the old man was patronizing him or not.

Mike was so taken aback that, for a solid minute, he didn’t have an answer. Well…fair point. He felt cramped but he also wasn’t spending five nights or even a whole night in there by himself. He was out of the room the second he finished the jobs on the pc. He wasn’t being locked in that little tiny dungeon, which was good. He was pretty sure Gold wouldn’t fit if they had to switch Suits for some reason.

“Now come along, come along. I haven’t got much time. Once we get him on stage, you can go back to your daily chores and seeing what Helpy’s found that needs tweaking.”

“Uh, okay?”

The alleyway was even less interesting in the day time. The air was chillier than the day before, making Mike shove his fists into his pockets. He tried to offer Henry his elbow but the old man only laughed kindly at him and ambled toward the back of the two buildings. Well, the side of the restaurant, the back of the longways building, which seemed less shed and more brick and mortar and steel, a gloomy massive and windowless prison.

“Sturdy.” Was all Mike could say, especially as he watched Henry pull out a key ring of about twenty keys, and begin unlocking one of _six_ locks.

“Ah, got to keep em safe in there, son. You know how it goes.”

_‘Yeah. Only, in this business, it’s more like, ‘got to keep everyone else safe, so lock them up tight somewhere.’ _Mike swallowed, watching Henry undo the last lock. _‘Whether the animatronics have any say in this or not is usually up for debate…’_

Mike shivered under his heavy jacket, wishing a Freddy model besides the wandering and naive Helpy was with them. Gold brushed across their bond in low amusement, and Mike hid a secret smile. Fine, so he wasn’t alone- _alone._

The inside was…well, dark. He knew better than to turn on Gold’s glowing optics to see, glad that Henry didn’t question his sunglasses even when they were inside a building. ‘Get migraines from the overhead fluorescents,’ might work as an excuse with the man, but you never knew…

Even in the dark Mike could sense it was crowded, and his assumption was spot on when Henry shuffled in and hit a switch. Six overhead, naked bulbs hummed on, casting light directly below but keeping the outer edges of the storage garage in sleepy darkness.

This didn’t feel as smothering as the warehouse that housed the Toys and some other secrets, which Mike supposed was a good enough sign.

“Okay…who are we here for?”

“Well, grab that dolly there—no, the big one, and follow me. He should be around here somewhere…” Henry tossed Mike a half smile that awoke some of the snakes in Mike’s stomach. “Provided he’s where I left him, that is…hah-hah, just a joke! Of course he is~”

“…right.”

A dozen reinforced steel shelves stood like pulpits, but loomed like preachers over even tall Mike by three feet. Ladders rested here and there for those that couldn’t reach the items on the tallest shelves. There were plenty of unmarked boxes, and plenty of marked ones. Things like ‘left arms’ or ‘nuts and bolts ONLY!’ as well as Mike’s personal favorite, labeled nothing more than ‘All of Their Eyes.’ Which was so eldritch and unnerving he snorted at the surrealness of it, and promptly moved on without letting himself be nosey for once. Later. He knew how to pick a lock without it showing, which was just one of the many things he learned at Freddy’s that should never be added to a resume. And if he didn’t want to implicate himself, Foxy’s hook was just as good at picking them, and Foxy didn’t leave DNA for obvious reasons.

They rounded a corner of tall crates and Mike perked up, staring at the tall animatronic on its own, special and brightly colored stand.

“Wow!” He eyed the strange, brand new and shut off Freddy, catching Henry’s attention, who was ahead of him only a few steps.

“Oh, Rockstar Freddy? The rest of ‘em are right over here…”

Mike left the dolly at Henry’s word, and trotted after the gentleman as he stopped beside the other three animatronics, making four in total.

“Hey, these guys look great…huh, kind remind me of the Toy models…”

“Ah, with more brains, let me tell you.” Henry snorted. “The Toys were a little more glitz than glam, and it showed, I think. Oh, they entertained well enough, followed programming just fine. But when they got old, or confused…” Henry shook his head in what Mike thought was ashamed disgust. “It wasn’t a good finale for them, no. I tried making that up with these four, what do you think?”

What did he think?

The Rockstars were _awesome_ looking. Their plastic was new and shiny, freshly polished even. Rockstar Freddy was big and bold; Bonnie’s guitar was so new Mike knew that his Bonnie would give one of ears for it. Rockstar Chica’s added dashes of periwinkle blue echoed her brother bunny a bit better, and her maracas were as cute as Rockstar Foxy’s accordion was downright hilarious.

“Is...is his hook holding the—hah!” Mike snickered to himself, finishing his slow walk around the other three and walking back over to Rockstar Freddy. “He’s even gotta parrot on his shoulder! Ohh, I wish I had a camera.”

But were they haunted…? _Alive?_ That was the real question, and Mike knew based on Henry’s previous attitude toward his Fazes—poor Foxy included—he might not get the most honest answer if he just blurted the question out right. He edged right up to the little stands, pretending to want a closer look at their joints and faces when in reality, the closer he was the better Gold could take a look for himself.

A quick ask to Gold confirmed dubious disagreement. No…if any of them were, it was possibly poor Security Puppet. These guys…

**‘Don’t think so, Michael.’**

They were just animatronics. New and unused. AI’s ready and blank slates, needing nothing more than a stage port, an audience, and some love to keep them running. They needed to be left alone aside from that, not tweaked, or opened up and dismantled, or had anything or anyone shoved inside of them, or _used as a fucking prank by a teenager and his friends to—_

Mike’s happy smile slipped slowly away.

_‘Maybe Foxy’s right. Maybe I’m not over Circus’ playing me. Maybe it’s clouding my judgment. There’s…there’s really nothing that bad here so far.’_

“So, which one of them are we taking to the stage?” Mike asked.

“Eh? Oh, none of those.” Henry replied, which of course seemed a little odd. Mike shot him a look, but Henry smiled and continued the direction he’d been going, and Mike followed the man around yet another corner.

“We’ll be starting with this fellow, here.” Henry gestured to the black Freddy model. “His name is Lefty.”

Mike waited for the punch line to be delivered, and when there was none, he stared.

Lefty was…well, Lefty was just about everything the Rockstars were most absolutely _not_. Mike winced, eyeing the rickety frame, the loose arm that dangled, or the way his one glass, ochre colored eye seemed to follow Mike’s movements as the night guard walked toward him. The bearbot was black—well, alright, at one point he might have been black. Mostly he was dark grey and splotchy, the sort of soft black that came when you left your favorite toy outside in the baking sun for a long afternoon. Mike had a little stuffed dog that had received the same treatment as a kid, and the poor thing had been thrown out without his knowing when he’d been rushed to the hospital one afternoon.

That was it, Mike realized with a half blink of muted, unsure surprise. Coloring aside, the Rockstars were fresh, out of the box new. That much was obvious. But here was poor Lefty, who looked like a worn toy someone had pulled from storage, dusted, charged and left, waiting for his first party in years.

Although Lefty was not without color; but what might have been cherry-red was now equally muted brick-burgundy, and the microphone in his hand looked it had seen more days as a blunt object instead of as tool to sing to children with. _Nothing_ about Lefty was new, and _everything_ about him was shabby, from his lopsided silk red hat to his crooked knees and gentle lean to the right he naturally did, his head canted to the side as if leaning down to listen to someone thoughtfully.

Once again, he nudged Gold across their bond, and the sleepy ghost hummed thoughtfully.

**‘Nope.** ’ He decided and then faded away. That was a shocker, but he and Gold were more action than study these days. Maybe Foxy would be able to sniff something out of Lefty? If anything existed, that is…

Lips pursed thinly, hands on hips and radiating uncertainty, Mike studied the black, ragged Freddy model.

“…are you _sure_ I don’t need to repair him, Henry? He looks awfully…” ‘Awful’ was the term to coin here. But incase Lefty could hear him, (because if any of these five were haunted, it was going to be this one, holy crow) and in case he was the sort to hold a grudge, Mike went for a diplomatic, “…uh, worn.”

“Adds to his charm.” Henry said simply, and the matter was closed. “Your only project is to set him up. The Rockstars can wait their turn, Michael. But we got an empty stage port beside your little friends and, frankly, I want to see if Lefty still works on stage at all. If he’s got the right stuff inside. Know what I mean?”

Mike most certainly didn’t, but he kept that little thought private and nodded.

Lefty wasn’t too heavy, as far as animatronics went. He was certainly the lightest Freddy model Mike had ever moved, which was saying something since, by all accounts, _Mike_ was the heaviest Freddy model but only when Gold switched Suits with him. Toy Freddy wasn’t too heavy but he was also ‘full of hot air’ as Bonnie would often berate. All that aside, Lefty was loaded and hauled back into the interrogation room, Helpy scampering ahead happily, where Henry told him something odd, nothing but the dark room and Lefty between them.

“Now, with every other animatronic we find, we’ll need to test them. Make sure nothing’s hiding inside, Schmidt. But old Lefty here is harmless, and I’ve got to get a move on. Your first salvage might be tomorrow, or it might be the day after!”

“Salvage…?”

“One thing I didn’t tell you before, son…” Henry cleared his throat. “There is another aspect of your 'end of day routine'. And that is inspecting and salvaging any animatronics found in the alley, outside of that back door. Things are found here quite often. And while we aren't sure why, what we do know, is that they can be used for parts. Which can mean a much needed revenue boost.”

“That how you found Lefty here?” Mike guessed. He had to agree with the salvage statement—after all, the Fazes were currently using _lots_ of ‘borrowed’ bits and ends from Pizza World, hidden under their fur suits.

“Might be.” Henry smiled as he watched Mike push the still animatronic into the little back room just behind Parts and Services. “I’ve taken the liberty of testing him for you, there’s no need for that. Lefty, thankfully, is safe as they come.”

“Well that’s…good.” And hard to believe, but Mike kept his mouth shut again.   
  
“Of course, as with everything else in this line of work, those benefits I just mentioned come with risks.” Henry admitted slowly, before stating primly, “The safest thing to do is to throw it back outside.”

“But then, we’d get no money for the salvage, right?” Mike hummed thoughtfully. He could see where this was going, and while he knew Freddy or the others wouldn’t like it…Mike did. In some small, sick way, he felt eager. Almost excited. _This_ was a good plan, or at least it had the potential to be, if it was going where he thought it was headed.

_‘He really did need me for this job. Not just because I’m younger. Because I’m tougher.’ _

“Smart guard; that’s correct. Choose to keep it and you run the risk of certain negative consequences, especially should the item in question _not_ to be as docile as it first appeared. Of course, you’re used to those sorts of consequences, aren’t you lad?” Henry’s gaze flitted to Mike’s scarred face, the discoloration of his eye above his black sunglasses that he had told Henry were for migraines due to sensitive eyes. 

Mike said nothing, but watched the old man evenly. This was more in line to what he was expecting, not exactly of course. But at least he wasn’t being put in a wholly dangerous situation it seemed.

After all, if (or _when)_ Springtrap showed up, Mike could get his revenge. He could stop the murderer for good this time, and maybe catch Circus Baby too while he was at it.

And anything _else_ that might be lurking out there in the dark…

“Now, if you _do_ decide to try to salvage it, then there’s a tape recording for you to play. We’ll get into that when there actually is something for you to do, but for now…why don’t we get Lefty on stage, and I’ll leave you and Helpy to your daily chores. That net around the ballpit was a good idea.”

“Oh, you liked that? Thanks…that was Helpy’s first contribution.” Mike snorted, and proceeded to regale the man with the story of Helpy’s maiden voyage down the big yellow slide, and how they were _still_ finding little colorful balls in corners of the big pizzeria a day later.

Henry laughed at the story, the sound rich and warm and for a second, those snakes in Mike’s stomach loosened and went back to sleep. Good intentions or bad, Henry did truly, honestly, love the animatronics in much the same way Mike did.

And that was a good sign…wasn’t it?

* * *

Michael Afton peeled himself gently forwards, freeing his left arm first, then his right. Then his right leg, and then his left arm, with careful turns and light tugs. He stopped when he felt his clothes snag, knowing his skin wouldn’t be far behind. He was a corpse who had stayed relatively fresh, but not by much, and he didn’t have time to stitch himself back together, nor even good lighting to do so. It was all very methodical, very practiced, because it had to be. Scraptrap wasn’t in great shape even on his best days, but closing around the dead teenager and using Michael’s body as literal scaffolding meant Scraptrap could get away with movements he simply couldn’t when he was himself, but it also meant that separating had to be done as carefully as humanely possible to avoid… _accidents_. Scraptrap, a worn bonnie model that might have been yellow once but was now almost pea green with decay and age, stood back against a wall completely and patiently still, letting the walking corpse remove himself. It was partly why they worked together so well, their strange and unique ability to combine and detach when necessary. Not even Dad could do this, Michael knew. That, and Scraptrap couldn’t injure his suit very well even if he wanted to—to lose his corpse would lose most of his mobility, plus the one who kept him running. (Well, functioning. Running was a whole other kettle of fish for this old Suit team, as someone who once loved Michael used to say.)

“Okay,” the living corpse whispered, relief flooding his soft tone. “You can unlatch your springlocks, man.” He waited for the tell-tale clicks behind him that were as familiar to him as his own hands, missing left pinky and all. “But stay here, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

He was quieter by himself; his high tops so worn that they muffled every little step he would have to make. Moving around together was their norm and certainly Michael’s security blanket, but right now they had to separate and rest; make up a game plan.

Scraptrap grumbled under his speaker in unease and rose jerkily, shaking himself out a bit, getting used to walking by his own accord and moving without Michael wedged safely inside of him. Scraptrap eyed the darkness of the building they had slunk into behind Uncle Henry and that other guy, and growled again. After all, he and Micheal tended to go everywhere together, which meant working alone made them both feel…exposed. And in a new place, with threats all around?

“No, no arguing!” Michael caught himself and pointed firmly until the yellow bonnie model sat his mostly broke ass down. “Look—I saw some boxes when we came in. Gunna sneak some parts you need first, since I haven’t had a chance to repair you since Pizza World, and look man, we gotta patch you up.”

The eldest Afton eyed the rotted frame of his partner doubtfully, from his rusted stiff hands that neither of them could move to his jutting hip joint, to his wedged upward shoulder that kept clicking dangerously, and to his closed chest, which even shut was still cracked open and spilling wires. Scraptrap tried shoving some uselessly back into his chest cavity, grumbling in annoyance and frustration at himself.

“Yanno, best we can manage.” Michael snorted fondly as he shook his head. Scraptrap glanced up at him, optics on low but illuminated enough to see by.

A metal finger jabbed at the young man’s chest, his worn shirt that he died in had plenty of holes after twenty some years, and made the old 80’s band hardly legible anymore. Michael grunted right back, his stitched up, purple-grey hands shoving themselves into his pockets of his jeans in stubborn refusal.

“Worry about yourself, dude, I’m fine.” He muttered. Wasn’t like he needed food or water anymore, after all. And embalming fluid was pretty impossible to get for obvious reasons.

He thought he saw a smirk of a phantom smile on Scraptrap’s chipped face, and he spied the way his rusty eyelids lowered in passive amusement but clear disagreement.

“I’m just a little tired, okay?” Michael rolled his eyes. “I’ll sleep later, after I know you’re in back in shape. You can take first watch, deal?”

Scraptap seemed satisfied with that, and so Michael slunk off, crouching his lean form nearly in half. When he wasn’t in Scraptrap, he liked being able to move better, liked having his flexibility back. He also liked the lack of buzzing in his ear, which had only gotten louder the closer they got to this…

Where were they exactly?

A new pizzeria, maybe. A really, _really_ new one. Months new. Wasn’t even open yet, in fact. That much he could tell. Michael couldn’t be sure of any more specifics beyond that, and the unknown unnerved him real bad. And any info he could grab from Uncle Henry’s little conversation with that scrawny guy didn’t help none. It also didn’t help that Scraptrap seemed as repulsed by the stranger as he seemed obsessed with the strange noise they tracked here, because Michael couldn’t concentrate when Scraptrap refused to walk within thirty feet of the man.

_‘What the fuck was so scary about him? Well, at least we got here before Dad.’_ That was one thing going for them. He wasn’t sure about Henrietta, only that he knew she was out of the underground prison Dad had ordered her to stay in until he returned. Which…for obvious reasons wasn’t good. Henri wasn’t really herself anymore, Dad had sunk his hooks in deep. Michael knew that, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

_‘I thought he was just kidding. He’d been gone for so long…I guess he was right though. He really does come back, always.’_ Michael glanced around, paranoia keeping his adrenaline—or whatever that substituted as adrenaline for him these days—fueled and on edge. He rooted around in a few boxes with a practiced eye, and only spared the shiny Rockstars a passing, unimpressed glance. You couldn’t take from animatronics that were that _new_ —people would notice. People always noticed when the nice things got ruined for ‘no reason.’ It was crap they tended to overlook, things like old bunny bots and glowering, rude teenagers. Uncle Henry wasn’t here anymore; he’d left the restaurant which was for the better. But that new guy, a guard maybe, he seemed like the type to notice if Michael borrowed pieces to rebuild his best friend. And if the guy went looking for those missing pieces, and found them…? Yeah, uh-uh. Michael Afton was tired of being screamed at, of being the star antagonist in a goddamn monster movie. He just wanted this all to end. If it weren’t for Scraptrap being left behind, he’d have finished himself off years ago. But he couldn’t leave his best friend, his other half. Scraptrap would be an empty Suit, and that was against the rules here at Freddy’s, no matter which restaurant it was. And now with Springtrap back and Henri on the loose…

_‘One damn thing at a time. Scrap needs the usual done. Gotta find some WD-40…’_

Their luck held, which was surprising but not unwelcome. The corpse shuffled his way back to the far back of the garage, hidden behind plenty of boxes and crates and totes and dust. He exhaled in relief, dusty lungs long ago unusable…but old habits hadn’t died with him, he learned. Only eating had left him, although sometimes he felt stiff, and cold weather caused his purple skin to crack or chip. Layers helped, or simply hiding in Scraptrap’s frame worked wonders, and the old animatronic was more than happy to keep him warm during the cold weather.

“I’m back, buddy.” He called softly, and almost smiled when Scrap’s ears perked up toward him. “Hear anything useful, man?”

Scraptrap cocked his head to the side, and seemed to think before pointing to his rusted, frozen hand, the single pointer finger which had locked in place.

“Oh, right, my bad…”

Michael got to work, focusing on the bunnybot’s stiff, clawed hands first and working by the light of Scrap’s optics. Most of his butter yellow paws had worn away years ago, the fur crinkling and peeling like a dead animal, leaving sharp metal joints that were hollow enough for Michael to slide his blackened fingers through when he had to. Unlike Dad, or Alex, and unlike Henrietta too, Michael had died before being shoved into his Suit. Well, dying maybe wasn’t the correct term, murdered was a better one.

Forcibly embalmed while being kept just barely alive and aware and unable to cry out—that was the exact term. Then he was horribly reanimated, the task so laboriously horrific, cursed and re-cursed and then shoved inside the spare Bonnie model Dad had lying around…a test subject. A miserable brat that at least could be made useful for once, he was told. He’d almost started believing it, too, until Dad cast him aside and tried to…undo the past.

The next thing Michael knew, he was Awake but he was not breathing, and his thoughts were not his own anymore. Scraptrap was thinking too, and none of the thoughts had been good. But they both agreed on one thing.

Dad had to be stopped before he made Suits using anyone else.

“There.” Michael sat back, dropping the tool into his pocket and slumping down to lean against the wall, taking shelter the shadow of his bonnie model. “That’s the best I can do now, man. Sorry.”

Scraptrap hummed in approval anyway, lifting his hand to flex the digits in gentle tests. His hands and fingers bent and moved, signing his gesture for _‘thanks.’_

When they were separate, they had to communicate somehow. Michael had stolen a book from a library on ASL years ago, and Scraptrap’s computer brains had picked it up with ease.

Michael smiled. “Don’t mention it. Okay, now what did you want to tell me?”

_‘Uncle—hide—noise?’_

“You remember what Dad said. We’re monsters now. Uncle Henry…he’d probably call the cops on us, or worse, he’d…” Michael sighed, tilting his head to read Scraptrap’s hands when they creaked in soft shifts, declaring a solemn single word of:

_‘Kill.’_

“Yeah. Kill us dead. Talk about heavy, huh? I can’t fight Uncle Henry, and you better not hurt him neither.” Although he knew the bunnybot wouldn’t…Scraptrap didn’t attack unless Michael told him to.

“I don’t really feel like dying again—you?”

His animatronic shook his head, the noise rusty and scraping.

“Yeah.”

_‘Bear.’_ Scraptrap signed suddenly, and when his human shot him a confused squint he shrugged and signed, _‘F-A-Z.’_

Freddy? Freddy Fazbear? …talk about old ghosts. Michael wasn’t eager to see the favorite bear of Uncle Henry…and of himself, once too. It would…no. Wouldn’t end well.

_‘If he’s still got that…personality glitch…if he remembers me…god, I’ll be lunch meat. Look what I’ve did, what I’ve been doing. Family has always been everything to Freddy. He’ll rip me outta Scraptrap only to stuff me in another suit probably. Only he’ll just be doing it to kill me. Thing is…I dunno if I’d fight him too much. He was the only parent I had after Uncle Henry...’_

“F…Faz, huh? You think—you think the original is here?”

Scraptrap purred softly, but corrected him with a motion of curling fingers.

_“All_ of them?” Michael blinked. “Dude, c’mon, they wouldn’t…I just walked by some brand new ones. Are those the ones you saw? Uncle Henry wouldn’t put up the original four if he…no, that’s exactly what he would do, what the hell am I thinking?”

Michael shuddered.

“Fuck, if they _are_ here, then…it’s _really_ good we got here before Dad.” Even better that they could rest up before having to confront him. Being a bonnie model’s Suit with both intact ears had its advantages, neither he nor Scrap could hear anyone else approaching the restaurant yet.

Scraptrap must have heard something Michael hadn’t, because he seemed confident in his words and settled with a hum of old parts.

“We can take Springtrap this time, I’m sure of it. Nothing’s gunna stand in our way.”

_‘Puppet—Go.’_ Scraptrap signed, mimicking with both hands a puppeteer moving a small toy on strings below his splayed hands, causing the dead teen to shiver and scoff.

“Right—no more Puppet. He’s at least one creep we don’t have to worry about.” Michael said with relief in his tired tone, and Scraptrap nodded with echoed sentiment.

* * *

Freddy Fazbear eyed the other bear model. He glared at it; optics lowering in distrust, then glanced at Mike with the look of an eternally tired, exhausted leader. Mike smiled sheepishly.

“Son, ya _can’t_ be serious.”

“Uh, well maybe he isn’t quite in shape as the rest of you…” Which was saying something—the original four had been considered over the hill when Mike met them almost a decade ago. Now they were held together with stolen parts from a sister location and Mike’s ingenuity and stubbornness and their own haunted histories. It wasn’t a great combination, but they at least looked more welcoming and friendly than a freakin’ animatronic named Lefty with only one eye, a tilted head and a crooked jaw.

“’Cept Captain Kitty,” Bonnie eyed the faded ebony bear as he circled it. “Looks like he and Foxy were in the same boat wreck!”

“Oh, bite me, rabbit,” Foxy snapped in playful warning as he continued to study Lefty. “Least I don’limp loud enough ta shake the crow’s nest.”

“Boys, stop—“ Chica was ignored, mostly because she was distracted as she moved from Lefty as well. He was…creepy.

“Hey, I gotta loose bolt, you know I’m sensitive ‘bout it—!”

“QUIET, both a’yas!” Freddy boomed, causing Helpy to drop his skee ball and scatter behind the machine.

“Freddy,” Mike soothed firmly, getting the old bear’s grumpy attention focused on him again. The night guard walked over and saved Helpy’s runaway skee-ball, and crouched to return it to the little bear as he toddled back out toward Mike.

“Look, I’m only following orders.” Mike explained. “This is what Henry wants.”

“Old fella’s lost his mind, son.” Freddy pointed out.

“Maybe he has, but if I question too much we’ll be risking more than we’re able to.” Especially with his knowledge of Henry’s plan. Mike glanced at Lefty, still standing quietly and lifelessly on stage where he’d been installed, and debated telling Freddy.

…maybe later. If Freddy was this wary over poor, shabby looking Lefty then he could only imagine how he’d go off if he learned Henry was using Mike and the new building as tantalizing bait.

_‘Hey, high risk, high reward. If it works? Then I’ll worry about how to tell Freddy. Yeah…just gotta play my cards right.’_

“Please? Maybe I can talk Henry into getting a spot for Foxy in the shows next week, especially if I do what he says early, and get in good with him.” Mike smiled hopefully, hands folded behind his back as he crossed his fingers. Bonnie spotted this, guffawed but said nothing, and merely lurched away in boredom.

Freddy shot Lefty a warning glare over his shoulder. No, nothing. Perhaps, like his kid, he was getting paranoid in his old age. Why did this Lefty fellow set him off but the little Security Puppet did not? Maybe because she was small and frail and rusted looking, maybe because she seemed willing to protect Mike even if it meant fighting him or Bon, who she didn’t stand a ghost of a chance against. Either way, he was uneasy. Mike had been bitten by too many strangers recently, and it had Freddy on edge.

“…Freddy?” Mike hedged, his voice light and meek with anticipation.

…was hard saying no to his night guard, it always had been.

“Fine, son. But I’m keepin’ my eye on ‘im. If he puts _one_ paw outta line, he’s getting hauled back to the storage shed. In _pieces.”_

“He won’t! I mean, look, even Gold can’t pick up on anything. That’s why I didn’t bother asking Foxy, I think he’s just an old model who got wrecked and no one repaired.” Which was sad. And the same thing that might have happened to Security Puppet.

“Gunna make me jealous, son, picking up all these strays with my face.” Fazbear finally grunted, but his smirk reached his blue optics, and Mike’s own familiar, easy going smile blossomed.

“Awh, big guy.” Mike chuckled, setting down Helpy pointedly and reaching up to pat Freddy’s shoulder playfully, unafraid and loving. “No one can replace my pooh bear, right Thumper?”

Bonnie seemed to perk up now that he wasn’t being yelled at, and so he chuckled. “Right, Bambi. Hey Faz, c’mon. We’re all here and so far, Henry keeps giving us space to be us. Lefty may look like crud but he seems pretty empty if you ask me.”

“That is a lot to get through before Mikey.” Chica agreed slowly, finally able to ignore Lefty’s empty smile at the missing audience and join them fully in the conversation.

“Don’t sense nuthin much in ‘im, Cap’n.” Foxy finally muttered after a long look. “’Sides, lad’s right. We’re all here to keep an eye on ‘em both.”

Freddy balked, before relenting with a grunt of clear dislike but acceptance. Mike, having got his way, perked up fully.

“C’mon, let’s grab a bite, gang.” Of course, Mike was the only one who ate. But he rarely ate alone, and they all knew that. And so they all followed Mike into the kitchen.

Foxy paused, lingering behind on purpose as he sniffed toward the stage. The galley doors to the kitchen swung closed, and for a single moment it was him, Lefty and silence. His eye patch lifted and the fox glared seriously at the motionless, deactivated bear. He squinted, optics narrowing as if trying to peer through fog. Foxy had been haunted not by a child but a teenager, and the kid’s eerie abilities had stayed behind in Foxy long after Nightmare’s game ended.

With a decisive huff, Foxy leaned back, his ears folding down in aversion.

“Wise choice, pickin’ the lads favorite model. I’ll give ye that much.” Foxy smiled a mouth full of big teeth, his tone cruel and warning. “Didn’t think ye had anything left in the tank, ya little devil. Well…fer Mike’s sake, let’s hope ye do. Lots changed since those first five nights. And we don’t let _no one_ hurt Mike, not even _you.”_

Lefty said nothing, only gazed lifelessly out into the pizzeria, the fall sunset setting the long room aglow with soft light.

Foxy scoffed in annoyance, and decided he now had two good reasons to go searching in dark areas at the haunting hour. One, to do Mike’s bidding and ask Alex Afton about Shadow Freddy. Two…to see what all _this_ nonsense was about, and ensure it wouldn’t do more harm than good to their night guard.

“Lad’s been through enough.” Foxy sighed and pushed through into the galley.

After a moment, there was movement. Slight, and soft, barely a whisper. It was only Security Puppet’s little bell tinkling softly as she peeked over the lid of her box, still hiding under the lid. The noises around her had stopped, and so her programming dictated she take a peek into the world, and see what was going on, if anything.

Lefty was staring directly at her with his one good optic, and with a tiny jangle of fright she vanished back into the depths. Which does bring to mind a good question, actually:

If an animatronic moves and no human is around to see it, did it actually do so?

* * *

The rest of the day passed in almost relative ease. Mike checked off his To-Do list for the Daily Tasks on the computer in his office, (with Helpy’s help) and rearranged the last of the wiring along the back stage so no worker or bot would trip and wreck themselves or the stage, (with Helpy’s help) and even managed to finish building a half finished arcade game, (…again, with Helpy’s… _idea_ of help.)

“Are you gunna be our test pilot, little bear?” Mike laughed as Helpy dropped the wrench he was playing with in startled shock, and promptly beelined for the step up into the blue and red rocket ride.

“Awh, no fair! How come I don’t get to be first!?” Bonnie demanded from where he was looming, ears flopping forward in a pout.

“Because for one, your cute little cotton tail doesn’t fit, rabbit.” Mike reminded with a snort of amusement. “Two, even if you did manage, the weight limit does _not_ include three hundred pound robotic rabbits.”

“…oh, yeah. Go figure, eh?” Bonnie grinned, shrugging any heartbreak off with teenage indifference. “Meh, so what? I’m bored anyway, gunna go see what Foxy’s up to…”

“Think he’s helping Chica rehang the pots and pans.” Mike warned, not looking up from his work.

“…think I’ll go see what Freddy’s doing.” And off Bonnie limped.

Shaking his head in fondness at the bunny’s allergy to work, Mike turned back to the project.

“Let’s see…twist here…tighten this…yeah, okay!” The man stood, clapping his hands and giving a sigh of pride and triumph. “Looks like it’s finished! Lemme just plug it in, Helpy. Ready to be the first bear in space?”

Helpy, naturally, was already in the child’s seat and nearly bouncing with unbridled and unabashed excitement, and it was contagious so Mike laughed as he moved to check the plug behind the rocket ride. This was a good distraction, building something new even if it didn’t come with instructions. That was fine with Mike, who liked a challenge.

Mike was so focused on watching the ride’s maiden voyage that he hardly noticed when a soft tinkling sound went off behind his shoulder, until the happened again, _louder._

He did what any night guard who’d survived past the first five nights at Freddy’s would do. He absolutely spooked and scattered, nearly going ass first over the rocket ride and freezing when he saw Security Puppet take off in fright in the opposite direction of his jerky scramble.

“SP!” Mike let go of his chest, ignored the chuckling Gold in his mind, and forced himself to calm.

“H-hey, wait! Come back, please?” he tried to be as soothing as possible, even with the loud music of the rocket ride playing behind him.

Surprisingly, the little puppet model obeyed. She eyed him warily and gave another bell-like noise, closer to a chirp of a music box than anything loud or jarring.

“Sorry,” Mike grinned sheepishly. “I, uh, don’t like being snuck up on. Creeps me out. Usually Freddy watches my back so I don’t go up a wall, or Bon’s ears let me know if something’s, uh, coming up behind me. Good or bad. So...sorry.” Like Marion, SP clearly was a listener, and not a talker. Mike rambled without meaning to, on instinct.

She nodded to herself, as if to say, ‘Yes, I agree, being frightened is terrible,’ and then glided primly closer, reaching a tiny, spindly black hand out.

“Whatcha’got there, Security?” Mike eyed the blue band he had been wearing earlier and blinked. She’d clearly found it on one of her peeks out of her box and grabbed it, then come looking for him when she spotted him alone with the exception of the small and easily distracted Helpy.

“Oh...uh, am I…you want me to wear this, yeah?”

She nodded, which caused her bell to jingle-jangle a bit louder than the main speaker she used to project through.

“I mean…sure…?” He didn’t remember Henry saying the Security Puppet _choose_ children to wear a band. No…he remembered that Henry specifically stated the parents rented a band color and gave it to the kid to wear. SP was only there to intervene when her tracking pinged and the child was out of bounds. Was this…normal for her then?

Or another sign of something… _not_ normal lurking in her frame?

_‘And, if she’s not haunted, how the hell is she floating?’ _

**‘Perhaps she is haunted after all, Michael.’** Golden Freddy rumbled, one of the rare moments he projected so strongly Mike could hear words instead of emotions or sensations.

_‘Okay.’_ Mike said. _‘By who, then?’_

At this, Gold was silent. Mike thought so. To be fair, he didn’t have a damn clue either, so that made two of them.

And Security Puppet certainly didn’t seem in the mind to spill her secrets, whatever they were.

Mike snapped the band back around his wrist, and wondered if he could find a way to turn it on and off. He appreciated SP’s desire to follow her protocol, but Mike had enough overprotective animatronics looking out for him. And anyway, she didn’t seem to understand that him leaving the restaurant _was_ allowed, and not a warning sign of some nefarious act.

_‘I’ll fiddle with it later.’_ He settled on, then smiled and held his wrist up for the little puppet to see. She chimed in praise and delight, and then promptly wandered away from him and back toward her present box, just like that.

Mike sighed. That wasn’t what he had in mind when he said he wanted her to engage with him more, but he was also afraid to push her. Mike noticed she only ventured up to him when he was alone as Helpy, apparently, didn’t count as a threat to her. It was just him and the little Funtime model in the arcade room which was really just the entire left hand side of the pizzeria.

Well, Lefty was on stage but he hadn’t so much as twitched since Mike hooked him to the ports. Maybe he needed a new battery?

**‘Still daytime.’** Gold reminded from the back of Mike’s mind.

_‘If he’s going to move, he’s going to move after midnight. Good point, pal.’_

Mike went back to his work, back to the room and the tables and the stage. Helpy liked Rocket Ride so much he demanded four more times, using Mike’s quarters each time. Security Puppet crawled her little self back into her box and vanished under her lid, the bow rustling softly.

And Lefty did nothing.

* * *

_‘Good job. I want him wearing that at all times, and for you to keep an optic on him—Michael is accident prone enough as it is, and I fear certain dominoes are going to start falling on him.’_

A little bell chimed in answer.

_‘Yes, I know what the others used to do. They don’t anymore, to neither children nor night guards. Freddy Fazbear however, you must learn to avoid him or get along with him, because I assure you he isn’t going anywhere. He is the night guard’s favorite, and he is stubborn as I am.’_

Tinkle-tinkle.

_‘For a rusted animatronic you are still very sharp, aren’t you? You’re correct again. That night guard just so happens to be **my** favorite. You follow your programming to the best of your abilities or I **will** deactivate you myself.’ _

A soft _Jangle!_ of fright was the only answer given.

_‘I am glad we have an understanding.’_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	4. If You Go Out in the Woods Today…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written a great deal of this fic on advance, which is awesome but also means I’m kinda worried about not keeping up with myself, yanno? In any case, chapter 5 will be posed January 29th. What happens after that might fall into “there be dragons” territory.

_Tell me a story," says Witch's Child  
_ _About the beast so fierce and wild  
_ _About a monster, crawly-creepy  
_ _Something nice, to make me sleepy"_ -Bedtime Story

* * *

**ACT I  
Chapter 4. If You Go Out in the Woods Today…**

“Ya under sold him, you know.”

 _‘Oh, did I?’_ The voice sounded like it knew exactly what it had done, which was never good.

“Ya never said the original four…were like **that** with him. Hardly seems fair, son. That old bastard won’t go up against all of them, he’s a coward, remember? He ain’t even shown up yet! How’s Mike gunna get all his tasks done with ole Faz shadowing him? Helpy should be enough.”

 **_‘I_ ** _used to be his shadow, I’ll remind you. Watch your words carefully, dear creator.’_

“No offense meant, Puppet, it’s just...”

_ ‘Yes?’ _

“He’s relying on them too much. He’s the night guard, not one of **them.** ”

Silence stretched between them, growing increasingly unhappy.

_‘Jealousy is ugly, you know.’_

“I think your judgment is clouded, friend. That’s all I’m saying.”

_‘Fine. I will think of something. If you want him to earn his title **again,** for a fifth and **final** time, he will do it. I know he can. He always could.’_

“Fer all our sakes, I hope yer right, Puppet.”

There was a very tired, and very old sigh, the noise as soft as a mouse’s cough.

_“…so do I.”_

* * *

Foxy the pirate watched the little watch on their night guard’s wrist, its glowing letters green and bright. He’d fallen asleep earlier as night slunk over the building, muzzle resting on Mike’s chest as it rose and fell while the man napped, one leg dangling off the stage and his hand having slipped off Foxy’s head a while ago. But he was awake now, and Mike wasn’t.

Foxy scanned the room, not really expecting to find anything. Even Shadow Freddy had vanished on them fully. Foxy wondered where the odd bear went to when he wasn’t skulking around them. Shadow Bonnie had gone on for good, that much Foxy knew. And Jeremy Fitzgerald had been using Shadow Bonnie as a mask, so that naturally made the old captain wonder who Shadow Freddy was hiding so well.

Behind them and off near the end of the stage, Lefty the bear stood. He had moved, only once and nothing spectacular. His paw holding the mike had slipped and lowered a few inches. That was it.

Nothing more. Nothing else. Mike hadn’t even been the one to see it, though he noticed it later when Bonnie pointed it out. It was nothing Strange and Unusual, and not exactly the sign old Lefty was haunted, and so no one had given it much more thought, not even the tired and distracted Mike.

Still, Mike had waited on the stage, but midnight had come and gone.

_‘Lad’s sharp, always has been. But tha’ devil’s smarter.’_

Foxy had joined his night guard, feigning a low battery that no one, not even Faz, questioned. But when night passed in comfortable silence—as silent as it could be with Bonnie playing that Aerosmith junk while he wandered and helped Captain or Chef—Mike had eventually fallen asleep.

And that was good.

3:00am, said the small time piece.

‘The witching hour,’ whispered the rest of the world.

Foxy rose, and slunk off the stage as slowly as his old joints could muster and still be silent about it. Mike was a heavy sleeper when Gold was recharging their battery, which was always in their favor. Across the huge room, he spied the rabbit’s long ears twitching toward him in interest as Foxy slipped down to cross in front of the long empty tables.

Bonnie eyed him, glanced at Faz who nodded, and turned dismissively away. But those big bunny ears remained pricked toward him, and Foxy knew that even as he turned his back on the room and his friends and headed for Mike’s brand new, very tiny office.

“Lad wasn’t exaggerating; it be smaller than a cabin boy’s quarters.” Foxy drawled in honest surprise as he bent in the middle, staring under the small dark desk. “…we both might not fit in here…hmm. Best try somewhere else.”

Then Foxy remembered the room near Parts and Services, a small enough mimic of a certain closet.

Perfect.

Venturing deeper into the grand restaurant, Foxy found the little storage closet he had seen Freddy rooting around in earlier and nudged open the door with his hook. Would have to do, with time running out on them. His hook caught the knob and tugged it closed softly.

“Come out, lad.” Foxy called. He waited. Silence.

“Ah’know ya can hear yer ole Suit.” Foxy stuck his nose into the little room a bit more and tilted it, then edged in fully, his tail switching absently.

“Come see me, boyo, ole Foxy misses ya somethin’ fierce…” He purred warmly, keeping his tone encouraging.

He stayed in the pitch black darkness, feeling more at ease and knowing his boy would too.

There was a soft scraping sound to his left, and he hummed, ears lifting. His optics were dim but enough for him to make out shapes—especially when those shapes were moving on him. Unless the broom had magically come to life, there **was** a shadow detaching from another shadow. The shadow had eyes suddenly, and was staring at him.

A guttural thrum that almost sounded welcoming filled the tiny space.

“There’s a good lad,” Foxy crouched slowly, eyeing the nightmareish form of himself and giving a noise of approval. “Ya look good boyo, bigger than I last saw ya. Like being the leader of the Nightmares, eh?”

Nightmare Foxy, Alex Afton that is, grunted, then edged hopefully closer, his tail twitching as he crouched down to be lower than the other, living animatronic. Submissive, but hopeful. Nightmares were easy to read when you had good common sense, and Foxy liked to think he had a bit more than even Fazbear, for Foxy could understand that not everything went the way we always wanted, and no amount of stubbornness could turn back the terrible hands of time.

Nightmare Foxy was a ghost here, not entirely solid and not very strong physically, but he was in good shape and seemed alert and happy to see his old suit. ‘In good shape’ for a Nightmare meant he was pointer, meaner, and sharper. Nightmares were meant to be bad, after all.

Nightmare Foxy chuffed suddenly and ducked, shaking himself out nervously.

“Ain’t here ta send ya off.” Foxy assured, and Alex relaxed, his dangerous jaw working sedately as he nodded. Where would Alex Afton end up, anyway? He was, on paper, a murderer. A catalyst that had set off dozen other events…

 _‘Souls stick around sometimes. Crying Child’s proof enough of that.’_ Foxy frowned to himself, _‘…and yet he’s been put ta bed. So why did the devil…? How?’_

“Got some questions fer ya, me’bucko. Be a good matey, and tell Foxy all ye know, aye?”

Nightmare Foxy’s optics flashed in inquisitive confusion, but he nodded dutifully.

“Alrighty. Let’s start with the smaller problem: ye remember all the animatronics we were around ta see, do yas? That’d be us, the original four. Fredbear—“ _‘Whom ya used ta kill yer little brother—‘_ but Foxy was good and didn’t say that. “Springbonnie, er, Trap, that is.”

Alex nodded, his big jaw creaking. He did. Good.

“Aye. The Toys? _Them_ vacant lil lubbers?”

Nightmare Foxy hummed and then snorted. Oh, the weird Toy models, of course. Watching the world through Foxy’s optics meant he had seen and met everyone Foxy had, even Mike, though the man never knew it until much later.

“Good, good.” Foxy praised then sighed. “…we gotta new animatronic here, a little puppet model. Security Puppet. ….you remember that one?”

Nightmare Foxy considered his words, and then shook his head slowly, but seemed uncertain before he nodded. He…he did? He thought he did. He grumbled, sounding disappointed with himself, and leaned in close to Foxy, jaw lowering until a faint voice rasped out, paper thin and twice as chilling,

 _‘Reeememberr…Unca’Heennnreee…?’_ Alex breathed with all his power. Talking was hard, and something he usually let Foxy handle. Now, though, he was himself and his spirit had taken on a monstrous form, perhaps as some final punishment. It was a form for scaring, not talking. He had lost that privilege when he made his choices years ago. He didn’t know why he knew this or how, what he did know was speech was _very_ hard, and Nightmares didn’t speak well because they relied on monstrous sounds and sweeping threats with body language foremost.

“Aye, he’s here too.” Foxy said. “Called us here in fact, to check out the new ship. Ain’t even had her maiden voyage yet, s’due fer sailing on Saturday me thinks.”

Alex looked troubled at that, but nodded.

“Ole Henry built her did he? Well…we knew tha’ already.”

But Alex was shaking his large monstrous, foxy-shaped head.

“…no?”

 _‘Goott…. **riiid** ooof...herrr…’ _Alex’s voice died like a soft wind, fading back into the ether.

Now it was Foxy’s turn to look disturbed. “…yer sure, lad?”

The middle son of the Afton clan nodded solemnly. That much he could recall.

“When?” demanded Foxy, and Alex lapsed into thoughtful silence before saying,

_‘Ssssoometimee…befooreee… **Us** …’_

Foxy didn’t need an explanation for that riddle of a statement. ‘Before Us’ meant before their joining, before William’s ill-fated, heartless revenge, before the Crying Child’s last birthday party. Before Circus Baby was built. Before she gave ice cream to Henrietta Afton. Before Michael vanished on them, hurting the dead Alex deeply. Before the Puppet would have been haunted, and active and lurking around watching William Afton from the shadows.

“That makes her old, then. Could explain the rust.” But…something wasn’t adding up. And Alex wasn’t there all the time before ‘Them,’ and when he was there permanently, it was the two of them, and so Foxy would have seen her too.

So why hadn’t he?

For a fourth time he searched his memory files, but most of the years before Alex were rocky and uncertain, or couldn’t even play. Would it be worth having Mike dig around his skull, and take a look? That had worked when Bon had wanted to help out young Fitzgerald.

“Getting you stuffed in me sure screwed up me processors, bucko.” Foxy mumbled in frustration, scratching at the back of his head, and causing Nightmare Foxy to whimper softly.

“Ah’know lad, weren’t no picnic fer you, neither…forgive ole Foxy.” Now on to the biggest reason he had coaxed Nightmare Foxy from the Other side. “There’s…something else. Something worse.”

Nightmare Foxy eyed the new, strange storage closet and grunted.

 _‘…Miiiike?’_ Alex wheezed in askance, and Foxy softened at the clear concern lacing the cursed teen’s tone. Their night guard really was something else, because sooner or later everyone seemed to warm up to the lad.

“No, no Mikey be fine.” But he may not be, if Foxy’s worries were going to end up true. Damn Puppet. “The Marionette be skulking around again.”

At the mere mention of his little brother’s Animatronic, Nightmare Foxy whined and sunk lower to the floor. Foxy, for once, offered no comfort, because he very much felt the same.

“We ain’t sure why, or how. And was hopin _you_ might, lad.”

Alex lapsed into thoughtful silence again, head cocking lazily.

 _‘Unca’Heenrehheee…called him…maaaaybhhee?’_ Stranger things. And the Puppet _was_ always thinking, and could go anywhere. Scott, better known as ‘that guy on the phone’ was right to be wary of it. Of course, Alex and Foxy weren’t just Suits because of William alone.

Foxy’s tattered triangle ears pricked up in interest. “Aye, could be. Hadn’t thought of that. Though, come ta think of it, the fellow _did_ say something about old ghosts…”

_‘Maaybhee…Mike…himself.’_

At this, Foxy looked uneasy. He recalled the first few weeks of Mike’s night guarding nights, and the closeness the young man developed with the terrible creature. Perhaps Foxy should have taken his own advice in hindsight—sooner or later, _everyone_ warmed up to friendly Mike.

“Aye. Maybe the lad _did_ call him back all by himself. But fer all our sakes, I hope not. A stringless Marionette, apparently, ain’t a powerless one.

But it could be a _vengeful_ one.” Foxy considered Mike’s almost fevered intent on catching Springtrap and Circus Baby, and making them pay for their sins. The same burning hunger that someone who loses everything starts to rely on in a desperate bid just to get by. To just survive the night.

Alex Afton grunted in uncomfortable agreement. He knew all about revenge, after all. Revenge could be a dangerous game with no prize whatsoever. Only consequences. 

Alexander had seen the strings connecting his father to the Puppet all those years ago, when his dead little brother had been a powerful spirit running off _fear_ and _pain_ and _terror_ and all he wanted was Daddy to make the Nightmares go away, to heal what had been hurt.

So the Puppet had chosen its very first Suit. A protector. A hero.

Only…William hadn’t been that, had he? Some Nightmares just don’t go away on their own. What the Puppet had found within William wasn’t goodness and love and warmth, but bitter cold and desperate fierceness to make whoever he could pay.

Eventually over the years, Alex and Foxy had puzzled out that the Marionette’s strange behavior and cruel nature was a left over trait inherited from William. The Puppet had severed its strings from the killer once it realized Springtrap was being used for suffering and torture, not for justice and protection. But the damage had been done. The puppet’s developing personality had been colored—but like when ink is dropped into a cup of water. The darkness had bled terribly badly; leaving a Puppet who had no problem paving a road to Hell with his good intentions, especially if it mean protecting the pizzeria and the animatronics and the children William had trapped there.

Alex Afton, _Nightmare Foxy,_ knew that the Puppet’s first Suit had been his worst mistake of them all. Because William Afton had taken the Gift of Life from the Puppet, and instead of using it to prevent the history repeating itself, had instead twisted it into something so terrifying, the ripples of his actions were still felt in the world today.

Not for the first time, Alex wondered what became of his brother and his sister. But he could not ask very well, and some small part of him did not want to know.

“Well…thanks fer help, boyo. Now, ya go back ta yer closet, and sleep tight Alexander. Ole Foxy loves you.”

Because dead teenager or not, some kids just need to hear that sometimes, especially from their favorites.

Nightmare Foxy seemed to smile, his mouth a wide gash of sharp teeth but his optics soft as he turned and slunk back into the shadows, becoming nothing more than a bump-in-the-night and a caution to all bullies about going too far with their victims.

Alex’s story had, at the end of its run, been nothing more than a revenge story. Foxy wondered idly what Mike’s tale was going to end up as.

* * *

**_The Past, 1985_ **

“How come Freddy still isn’t talking?” demanded the teenager.

“Haven’t the foggiest, son. Not sure _what_ poor Fred’s problem is. His AI is working just fine. He’s recording perfectly.” Henry looked over from his work at his bench to where the teen was standing, headphones dangling from his neck and yellow cassette player in hand.

“He better figure it out fast. I think the kids are starting to notice.” Michael suggested as he squinted and studied the sitting bear, who was staring back at him quietly from the work bench he had sat down on after closing.

“Maybe he’s afraid to.” Michael paused, realizing how he sounded and then ‘pffted’ dismissively. “What am I saying? He can’t feel like that… _can_ he?” The boy hedged in growing uncertainty at his unrelated Uncle.

“Sometimes it feels like these fellas can feel, they certainly understand enough.” Uncle Henry said diplomatically, half to Michael, half to the circuit board that would one day help Chica ice cakes, and hopefully take a load off the busy and complaining cooks in the kitchen.

“And their AI’s _are_ developing by leaps and bounds every day. But, devolving personality matrix aside, there shouldn’t be anything mechanical keeping Freddy from talkin’, son.”

“See?” The teen turned back to Freddy, who went from watching Henry to him again, blue glass eyes blinking slowly once.

“…” said Freddy.

“Don’t you wanna make some noise, dude? Shake things up a little?” Nothing. Freddy only tilted his head down at the boy, and then his optics roamed to the right, tracking a movement he found more interest in.

“…” said Freddy, again.

Michael puffed a sigh of mild but fond frustration, then turned as flat footsteps lurched up to him.

“Hey Bonnie.” The eldest of Afton siblings laughed as the purple bunny’s ears pricked up in delight, his optics locked on the little music device in the teen’s hand and he jabbed a purple finger at it.

“Yeah, yeah, I‘ve got it today, don’t I always?” Michael smiled.

Bonnie was someone who could not talk yet even if he wanted, (and it seemed he did, very much, and would likely end up as chatty as lively and energetic Springbonnie) as Bonnie’s speakers had blown from his first attempt and the new ones wouldn’t come in for a month or two. Maybe that was for the better, because Dad had been _pissed_ when Bonnie’s first attempt at speaking had resulted in a blown stage speaker as well, and Fredbear and Springbonnie had frozen and malfunctioned briefly from the power surge Bonnie had accidentally caused. Everyone was alright now though, according to Uncle Henry.

“Don’t go nowhere without that thing,” Uncle Henry agreed in almost wicked delight. “Drives your father up a wall.”

“Hey, it’s this, or I lug his record player around.” Michael grinned flippantly as he loaded a tape he’d set on the workbench by Freddy, and raised the headphones to Bonnie’s ears, the bunny seeing him coming and lowering his head automatically. Michael turned the dial down by half, having been warned by Uncle Henry that Bonnie’s ears were sensitive ‘as the dickens.’

“You’re gunna love this, it’s brand new.” Michael assured as he loaded Aerosmith’s _Done with Mirrors_ and pressed play on his cassette walkman.

Bonnie the bunny stood still, his paws at his side until he heard a guitar riff he apparently liked, and then they lifted, head bobbing as he began mimicking the air guitar he had seen Michael do when he was mopping the floors last night after closing. He didn’t have many expectations at the diner, but cleaning was always the top of the list whether he liked it or not. Scott said he did a good job, but Dad said free labor was free labor and to get back to work, and keep the racket of his music down. Michael wore his headphones while he cleaned, so he knew his dad was just complaining to complain. He wasn’t like mom was. Erh, had been.

“Hey, you’re getting pretty good! Yanno, Bonnie oughta have a guitar, Uncle Henry. Doesn’t Spring need a new one anyway?”

“A’yep, he does. Course we need the funds first…but then, little yella’fella could always play the piano…” Fredbear had originally played it, until one day they saw Springbonnie watching him and the next, he was taping keys slowly. William had encouraged it best he could and now, Springbonnie could play it just as well if not better than Fredbear, because Springbonnie was light enough to actually sit on the bench and not bend over it like poor Fredbear, who had to loom. Henry was glad he had slightly downsized Freddy Fazbear.

“So why can’t Bonnie have his old guitar? I bet he’d love it. Like a hand-me-down,” Michael rolled his eyes at Bonnie, telling him, “I gotta give enough of those to Alex anyway, but it’s whatever. You were made after Springbonnie, so that kinda makes you his little brother, and little brothers get all the best stuff.”

Bonnie only nodded, pink optics shutting once as he listened half to the music and half to the kid beside him.

“Fine, son, fine. Only he can’t be playing that rock malarkey on stage for the kids. Gotta stick to the list of approved songs only.” Henry warned over the top of his half moon lenses.

“Sounds easy enough.” Michael shrugged and turned back to watch Bonnie’s head and ears bop to the beat. “He didn’t say anything about you playing whatever music you liked _after_ hours, right?”

Bonnie eyed him then grinned with his big, acrylic teeth, seeming to understand Michael’s hint.

Freddy watched the two interacting all the while, the purple bunny that his programming told him was someone very important to him. Someone to engage with on stage a lot to show children how special friendships were, and the human child who was not quite out of teenhood, not yet.

“…Son…” Rumbled a voice, and though it was pitched far deeper and flatter than Uncle Henry ever spoke, Michael turned to the old inventor on instinct and blinked. Only one person called him that without sounding disappointed, after all.

“…you say something, Uncle Henry?”

Uncle Henry smiled, and simply shook his head.

“Nope. But I think someone else did.”

* * *

Michael Afton woke up abruptly from a dead sleep, which was a poor choice of words but an honest set of one.

He shivered, suddenly aware of the chill that always bothered him, and noting that it suddenly seemed to be getting worse.

 _‘Wonder what month it is? Still October?’_ He had no way of knowing, and after several years he had gotten used to the anonymity of time. Occasionally though, like right now, he would wonder and wish he knew a solid answer. A date. Anything. The sun was great for daytime, and the moon was good for a new month or an old one, but that was about it. Scraptrap’s internal battery had long since died, stuck forever on 1988, August 4th. Michael’s Death day. Scratrap’s Alive day.

He also wished he had more clothes to wear. But then he wouldn’t fit as snugly into Scraptrap’s hollow frame, and that was no good. He had only the clothes he was killed in, and the one thing he had gone back for from his bedroom, a dark and stormy night with lightning flashing as Frankenstein’s monstrous son stole into his father’s house, checked in on his baby sister and then made a short stop in his room.

Michael glanced down, staring tiredly at the cassette player purring in his hand and nothing more, because side 2 had stopped playing a while ago. Every inch of him wanted to flip to side 1 and go back to sleep for a bit longer, but he couldn’t when he saw out the high window and spied the dark night sky behind the dusty pane of glass.

Night was here. What little rest he had gotten would have to do for now.

Beside him, Scraptrap made a purr of his own at his kid, the noise rasping and reverberating. He waited for Michael’s strange violet eyes to settle on him, and he moved his hands, the same sign he always made when he saw Michael awake after his sleep.

“Mornin’,” Michael returned the sentiment, his tired smile a little more honest before it faded.

_‘I think if I didn’t have Scrap, I’d have gone crazy by now. Like Dad. Will we end up like him one day?’_

Michael wondered this, even as he tried to comfort himself and knowing any comfort was impossible.

“I’m gunna go check out the joint across the way, man.”

Scraptrap frowned with a rusty creak.

“Look, if the original four are here, that means Bonnie is here, and if _Bonnie_ is here…” Michael pointed a purple-black finger meaningfully at Scraptrap’s towering ears. They fell back in dislike as Scraptrap nodded, grumbling.

“Springtrap can’t hear shit anymore, but I have no idea about Bon.” Michael looked uneasy just thinking about it. “Uh, and worse, if Bonnie hears you, and mistakes you for Springtrap—or even if he doesn’t—we both know who he’ll call first.”

 _‘F-A-Z.’_ Scraptrap warned, as well as signing _‘Night-man-danger.’_

“Right—Freddy and that night guard. Actually, I’m more worried about Alex…if he’s still in there, anyway.” Alex was inside Foxy, as far as he knew. And Foxy had a lot of teeth, and accidents will happen when you got a lotta teeth. Michael had learned that the hard way.

 _‘Bad,’_ Scraptrap gestured as he rose to follow the kid as far as he would dare, _‘Idea!’_

“Oh, keep your springlocks wound.” Michael snorted. “I’ll be fine; I’m not taking any risks we can’t afford, awright? Open up.”

Scraptrap scowled but finally obeyed, parting his chest a few inches so Michael would bury the cassette player safely in Scraptrap’s form.

“Can’t let anything happen to that,” Michael shivered, “Not after last time.”

Looking back, he should have known it was important when a year passed and the batteries hadn’t needed changing. So he’d taken them out then, purple hands gripping the warm plastic tight as he realized _it_ had changed, too. It felt…heavier. Somehow. Like it carried more than his favorite Aerosmith cassette, an artifact stuck in time alongside him and his bunny model. Michael didn’t know the first thing about ghosts back when he started wondering about the significance of the cassette player, but now he felt confident enough to call himself an expert.

Zombified or not, he _was_ haunted. A walking, talking, haunted corpse. Scraptrap was haunted. The cassette player was haunted—it kept them stable. Focused. Powerful. The Marionette had Arthur’s flashlight, and he had this. Alex had Foxy’s original head, oddly enough. He didn’t know what Dad had, because Dad kept it hidden and secret—which was to his advantage, sadly.

_‘Maybe if I can find out what it is, and destroy it, he’ll stop coming back once and for all.’_

And until he put this whole messy situation to bed, and atoned for his father’s sins, he thought perhaps they would always be haunted.

Michael left Scraptrap behind, and he was glad for it almost the instant he crossed the threshold out of the garage. The night was frosty, but also wet. For obvious reasons, wet and animatronics didn’t mix, not even supernaturally haunted ones.

_‘Good for us, though. If we can’t be out in this weather, Springtrap and Dad can’t either, or Henrietta—Circus Baby, whatever.’_

He was almost amazed at how well their luck was holding.

And it held even longer, as he slunk through the back door into the big restaurant.

_‘Big place. Those new animatronics will fight right in.’_

But there was already noise going on, making the dead teenager freeze in his tracks. Least he didn’t have to worry about Bonnie picking up a heartbeat he didn’t recognize…uh, if he was still able to.

“Anybody seen Mike?” demanded a heavy southern accent, and for a second Michael was so shocked he thought he felt his heart pump a moment from the fear, because he _knew_ that voice, deeper and calmer than even his Uncle’s with a hint of static under it every so often.

_‘He knows!? How does he know!? We were so fucken careful—!!’_

“Naw, but last I knew he and Helpy were rewiring some’a the arcade games. The numb-nut technicians used the wrong grounder, and the games keep resetting!” responded a young male voice, the soft pulse under it betraying it. The voice did not belong to a kid that sounded like he was Michael’s age, no matter how convincing and casual it was. Er—well, his age back in 88, anyway.

_‘Bonnie. He sounds just like he used to. Wait— **he?** Not me then.’ _

Night guard was named Mike. Good to know. And night guard Mike had some knowledge of electrical, if he was working on breakers and the tricky, sensitive arcade machines FazCo used to commission. Michael had no idea what or who Helpy was, though.

_‘Wonder if Foxy’s Squid Toss is still around?’_

Memories of playing that with his little sister stung his still heart, because she often demanded it but was so short he had to hold her up so she could aim the little stuffed squids through the hoop ring. The eldest Afton sibling dared to slink closer, crouching down against a far wall and right by Parts and Services. If he had to dash out of here, he wanted an eye on an Exit at all times.

“Hnn. Best check on him. Don’t need him frying himself again.” Freddy sounded displeased. Or maybe grumpy? Worried? Freddy was always disappointed in something or someone, it seemed.

_‘Or maybe it was just me.’_

“Mike wants me to check the back alley, see if we got any…uh, _visitors.”_ Bonnie informed conversationally. His flat footsteps filled the hallway as he said this. Michael didn’t need to hold his breath, but he did so anyway.

“Oh?” Freddy’s interest was back on his best friend. “Take Foxy with you, Bon. Even if there ain’t nuthin…”

“Yeah, I hear ya, Faz.” Bonnie hummed agreeably. “Course, who’d be out in _this_ weather?”

Thankfully, Bonnie and Freddy’s voices were fading. Freddy leaving to check on an apparently accident prone Mike, and Bonnie changing directions to go fetch Alex. Er—Foxy.

 _‘If Alex sees me, he’ll understand. Him I can trust. But the rest of them…’_ Michael eyed a door and nudged it open, seeing it was only a big storage closet. He slunk in and crouched down, deciding to wait and listen for the time being. The place was more active at night than he expected, but it did tell him for sure who was here. Four animatronics that were Alive, and one night guard who was apparently more than just a screen watcher. And one Freddy apparently gave a damn about.

That was…different.

Michael Afton shivered, and this time the cold had nothing to do with it. A disappointed Freddy Fazbear was one thing. An angry, possessive one was just unholy retribution.

* * *

“Phew!” Mike hurried out of his office, leaving the door open and fanning his face with a flapping hand. “That room gets hot fast, not sure how I feel about that!”

“Can’t imagine ole Goldy don’t make it worse on ya too, eh lad?” Foxy remarked as he strolled down the hall toward the night guard.

“Sure does,” Mike agreed with a tiny chuckle. “Forget coffee! I’, gunna grab some water, don’t wanna get any more lightheaded.”

Despite his lackadaisical tone, Foxy frowned at the man’s words and dogged the man to the kitchen.

“Maybe ya should take it easy, lad. Been burnin’ the candle at both ends it feels like.”

“Awh, you worry too much Captain,” Mike said as he pushed through the double doors and wandered for the sink. “But I appreciate it…hey Helpy, how’s it hanging?”

Helpy wandered around the man’s long legs, tugging his jeans and pointing emphatically to the stove.

“Nope, sorry. Little baked bear cub is _not_ on the menu at this establishment, buddy.” Mike denied, chuckling when Helpy paused and then looked confused, as if wondering why the stove was off limits in the first place. Foxy leaned down and growled in warning, and the little Funtime Freddy model stopped wondering and wandered away quickly as if to prove his disinterest. See? He wasn’t doing nuthin’! His cheerful glance seemed to say.

“I already told him no,” Chica’s voice trickled in from the walk in as she lurched out, brushing some ice from her shoulder. “He seems to already understand who the mush is out of all us, though, hmm sweetie?”

Mike grinned sheepishly at Chica’s amused accusation, “Well in this case, I’m with you Chica. Hey, have you seen anything that looks like it would resemble something named Candy Cadet? An animatronic, I’m thinking? Since that sounds like a food-thing I wasn’t sure if they shove it in here for refills or what…”

“Mmm, no, can’t say I have. Oh! Ask Freddy, I think he’s been in all the cleaning closets, and he told me one of them doubles as storage.”

“Thanks!”

Bonnie intercepted them as Mike and Foxy headed for the storage closet near Parts and Service. Helpy toddled after Mike, clearly deciding whatever he was going to do was more interesting—or at least more safe—than chasing Foxy’s tail with grabby paws or crawling into an oven.

“Hey Mike—“ Bonnie greeted, “Before you ask, no, I haven’t checked outside in the back alley. Going to now though, Fred wanted me to take Foxy.”

“Good idea,” Mike hummed, after a gulp of water. “Go on, Foxy, I’ll be alright.”

Foxy shot him a look, but finally nodded and wandered off after the limping purple bunny.

“Okay Helpy, just you and me now.” Mike said.

The biggest storage room wasn’t dusty, but it was very organized. Just a quick glance told Mike his best friend had been in here, sorting and checking and cataloging for the next (possibly the very first?) order of cleaning supplies. Mike chuckled as he eyed the tidy area, walking around one of the shelves that made up a half wall.

“Good old Freddy. Let’s see…Candy Cadet…” Mike muttered to himself as he eyed the room. Helpy toddled off in a seemingly random direction deeper into the dark room, which wasn’t unusual for him and so the night guard stayed focused, letting the little bear do his own thing. How much trouble could Helpy get into in here, anyway?

“Nope, nothing.” Mike placed both hands on his hips and huffed in puzzled frustration. “Maybe the garage? The Rockstars are over there, after all. Let’s go Helpy, c’mon.”

Mike wandered back to the doorway and frowned, loitering as he waited. Weird, Helpy was easily distracted but he also tended to respond to Mike the quickest. It was the others he tended to blithely ignore—much to the irritation of Foxy and the amusement of Bonnie, who loved any chance to see Foxy irritated or to see Freddy lay down the law on some poor sap who earned a scolding. 

“Helpy? What are you playing with back there?” Mike called into the darkness. A soft scuffling sound answered him, and he cocked his head thoughtfully.

“C’mon, little bear, let’s go.” A moment later the little plastic bear wandered back to him as if nothing was amiss, smiling widely as he clapped his small white and purple paws together. Mike looked down in amusement as Helpy grabbed his pant leg and tugged insistently, pointing to the little area made by a set of steel shelves and a wall to the right of the storage room. Mike glanced at it, but boxes and supplies kept him from seeing through the storage shelving.

“What, now you wanna get into cleaning supplies?” Mike laughed, bending down to scoop the squirmy little bear up. “I don’t think so, but nice try. Let’s leave the cleaning to Freddy.”

Bonnie and Foxy were already where Mike was headed, but walking away from the back Exit toward Mike and looking bored.

“Nothing , huh?” He asked.

“I’m beginning to think Fred’s right, Mike.” Bonnie admitted. “And poor old Henry’s lost his marbles. Two days and zilch? He made it sound like every animatronic from here to Timbuktu would be knocking down our back door to get in.”

“Well, let’s stay positive, guys.” Mike said. Besides, they didn’t need every animatronic, just two specifically. Maybe three.

_‘But I can’t let the gang know that. Just so long as they keep an eye out, we’ll be golden.’_

“I am, I’m positive we ain’t gunna find nothin’!” Bonnie declared, making Mike snicker.

He and Foxy wandered off, leaving Mike and Helpy to venture through the back alley—the very empty, abandoned looking back alley—and make their way into the long garage.

“Hmm,” said Mike, flipping the switch and eyeing all the dark places an animatronic named Candy Cadet could hide.

“This might go faster if I knew how big the thing was…” Mike mused out loud as he wandered deeper, letting Helpy wander off yet again.

“Oh, hey, what’re you?” Mike asked as he crouched down by a squat, brightly colored robot with two dangling arms and an alien ship head.

“Hmm...no plug, oh—coin slot, okay. You’re different.” Mike spotted the twin slots and perked up. He dug out a quarter and jabbed it through with the pad of his thumb, glancing up as Candy Cadet illuminated and rose to life.

“I am Candy Ca-det, come get your candy here.” intoned Candy Cadet, with a voice so boring and detached it reminded Mike of oatmeal. “I have candy all day, every-day. Candy. Candy. Candy.”

“Well, you can’t be accused of information, can you?” Mike snarked conversationally as Candy Cadet’s slot opened and two pieces fell out. Mike scooped them up and eyed them.

“Return to Candy Cadet again and ma-ybe I will tell you _a sto-ry?”_ and then the animatronic went silent, and its flashing lights pulsed a only moment longer before turning off and slumping forward.

“Uh…okaaay.” Mike dragged the word out, eyebrows so high they vanished under his bangs. “Well, didn’t give me too much candy. But you also don’t sound…very inviting for little kids.” He made a mental checklist as he stood, swiping lazily at his pants.

“Bet I can push you out by myself, maybe getting you actually _in_ the dining room will help?” Mike hummed, aware how crazy he probably sounded, talking to an animatronic that was most certainly not haunted, and perhaps not all there even to begin with.

Deciding to get the strange Candy Cadet out of the garage and go from there, Mike went about the laborious task of moving things out of his and Cadet’s way, so the squat animatronic could be pushed without catching something.

He missed something, because of course he did, and a great clattering and clanging sounded that sent Mike bolting upright as he tried and failed to stop the descent of a stack of boxes that were mostly unlabeled except for one warning word of ‘Heavy!’

And heavy they were.

They crashed along the ground and into the wall, knocking a shelf so badly some of the smaller boxes on the offended shelf bucked free and fell down out of sight, behind the towering steel frame of shelves that made up one of the ‘walls’ of the deep building.

The noise of startled snarling caught his attention and Mike froze, throat closing as every nerve light on fire.

_‘There’s something over there. Something **Active.’**_

“…Helpy?” Mike tried, aware of how unconfident and meek his voice sounded. “…please tell me that was you?”

Mike glanced to his right, staring at the door way where he could see Helpy playing with something he probably shouldn’t, but Mike didn’t care about that right now.

That noise wasn’t Helpy.

Mike steeled himself and crept around the shelf, hand flying to a wrench he had in his pocket and wielding the little tool like it was a baseball bat, because some things never changed. He hesitated, then slipped fully around and his other hand moved, snatching his flashlight and shoving the button from off to on.

The shadow howled as the light hit it, reacting so angrily Mike thought it was a Foxy model, but no. those two towering ears belonged to only one model and Mike jolted, fire leaping through his frame.

“Afton!” He snarled, then jerked when he realized Springtrap didn’t have his right ear, and this green and rotting animatronic most certainly did.

_‘If he’s in even remotely working order, he would have heard me coming a mile away.’_

Golden light glanced through the bunny’s frame, illuminating the wall it was pressing against. This bonnie model was riddled with holes, but also seemed purposefully sectioned off with hinges and joints that were being held closed by…something? More springlocks and latches? Its fever-bright optics flashed angry yellow and it swiped a metal paw out, as if trying to knock the light off its form like a human swatted uselessly at a hornet. A sizzling sound was heard and Mike almost didn’t understand what he was seeing until he recognized the eerie, spectral flickering light from the rabbit.

There were two reasons Foxy didn’t like flashlights aimed on him. Both reasons involved Mike’s flashlight specifically, the little plastic child’s toy he had inherited from a crying child who had once used it to keep his nightmares at bay. The flashlight saw more than a human’s eyes and would reveal what was there. And if something was there that was not supposed to be, it would try and force it away, back into the darkness where it had come from. Out of the light. Into…something Mike assumed was not good. Perhaps a place where consequences came calling.

Foxy’s teenager of a ghost had left him when Mike took over the night guard position, and took up residence as Nightmare Foxy in the world of terrible dreams and warning ghost-stories. So now, when _this_ flashlight hit their Foxy, his systems would freeze, and shirk and just be thrown out of whack in general. The flashlight would try to put Alex back where he had come from, forcing them to be Suits again. It was something neither of them wanted—whereas a normal flashlight just tended to blind Foxy’s sensitive cameras in his eyes and really only serve to piss him off.

If the light hit Mike, it would switch him with Gold, and vice versa. This was jarring and disorientating, but nothing the two hadn’t gotten used to over the years. It was a good ace-in-the-hole to have, as he had learned last month when Danny had saved him from the Funtimes and Afton.

But if the flashlight hit an empty, haunted Suit with no spirit to fill it…well, what would happen? Apparently whatever was happening right now. Mike’s grip on the flashlight made his knuckles turn white as he realized what he was looking at.

_‘He’s a Suit like—‘_

**‘Us.’** Finished Gold.

“Get away from him!” a new voice knocked Mike from his thoughts and a frame hitting him knocked him off his feet, as whoever it was collided with him clumsily.

Mike yelped, stumbling sideways and watching the figure scramble to get his legs under him, the light of the Crying Child’s flashlight making shadows leap and wobble and generally confusing every party in the little scuffle.

Mike fully expected to have to fight, but the figure that had crashed into him pushed off without a second glance at him.

“Open up! C’mon man, stay with me!” The new comer commanded, and without warning the bonnie model wrenched straight up, everything from his head to his legs parting open halfways, hollow and dark as his head lolled back and he went still and waiting.

And then the two were _together,_ somehow, and the bonnie model was closing up, and Mike felt bile rise in his throat as he watched the two join together and the sounds of springlocks clicking free, one by one with meticulous certainty.

Springlocks clicked _closed_ and the body was gone, mostly, and the bonnie model opened violet, sizzling bright and inhuman eyes, its optics no longer yellow. The optics and head rolled loosely down to Mike, and eyelids soon followed.

It—they?—glared down at Mike but made no more threatening moves, who only stared back in furious shock. Even Gold was surprised, though Mike felt it was for a very different reason.

The world held its breath, and so did Mike. He tensed further, shoulders up high as he started to move when the Bonnie model lurched closer to him, one paw crustily making a fist.

A startled chiming interrupted the moment, and both blinked. Something small and black and white popped into Mike’s view—literally, which gave him an answer on whether or not little Security Puppet could teleport like Marion had been able to—and her entire frame quivered in fright as she pushed backwards, as if trying to shield Mike from the animatronic.

“SP! How did—” a glance at his wrist where the blue band sat confirmed his other suspicions. “…man, I gotta remember to take this thing off.” Well…maybe this time he’d call it a win.

And then the floor quivered, and a shadow fell over the three—uh, four?—of them.

The combined bonnie model unexpectedly shirked, stumbling backwards and sinking low as Mike tore his gaze from the two and threw his head back all the way. He saw only brown fur and two black and white optics as he stared up at Freddy Fazbear looming above him, the bear upside down to Mike’s view.

 _‘Crap.’_ Was all Schmidt had time to think.

Freddy _roared,_ a familiar bellow that Mike remembered from one of their earliest encounters during the first five nights; a resonating archaic sound that inspired terror even in him, and he knew he was safe. SP twitched and was gone in the time it took for Mike to blink, and then he lost sight of her. Still, she was smart to get the hell out of the way; Mike couldn’t fault her for that.

Interestingly, the Bonnie model looked frantically around for something, then seemed to decide on going up and over the mess Mike had caused, trying to escape. A box was shoved out of the way by a hook. And then a long red muzzle full of teeth came closing down inches from the Springtrap-lookalike’s face, and they wisely backed up, then tried a different route.

“Where ya going, _little guy?”_ Bonnie the bunny demanded with a wicked cackle of glee, Cakey glaring from Chica’s plate as she and Bonnie advanced on either side of Freddy in their usual placement on stage.

The night guard turned his attention back on the strangers, realizing they were just about the most pathetic excuses for Suits he had ever seen.

_‘It’s the flashlight that was hurting the bonnie model. Like it had Nightmare. He…he didn’t attack.’_

And if they wanted to get technical, _Mike_ was the one who had gone around dropping boxes of parts on poor animatronics minding their own goddamn business.

 _‘Wouldn’t he have attacked me earlier when I was playing around with Candy Cadet?’_ Bonnie models weren’t known for their patience. Sure, maybe it could be argued Afton was sneaky, but if he was truly patient and clever he wouldn’t be the restaurant’s worst kept secret, would he?

Mike blinked, realizing two things in that moment and accepting he had only a second or two to change the course of this little scene, and the fate of a Suit and their human who was more scared than violent.

And so Mike Schmidt moved, making a choice in a moment.

He was up and whirling around, arms stuck out and fingers splayed wide as Freddy charged forward—

 **“Stop!”** Mike shouted, and Freddy halted like a switch had been hit, though he bared his acrylic teeth at Mike, as if to ward him away.

The world held its breath.

Mike _listened._ In his bone, Gold did too.

_‘The bonnie model is silent. No inner workings.’_

But it was most definitely moving earlier, before he’d watched the two combine like that. Ice replaced the now dying fire in Mike’s bones. Gold settled with a proprietary hum of wonder and curiosity. He saw no need to switch with his human Suit, not yet. This was getting interesting, and anyway Freddy was here.

“H-How’d you find me?” Mike gasped through his pounding heart at his family, wanting a moment to compose himself.

Freddy spared him a look then jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Security Puppet, her little blue optics locked on the blue band on his wrist, chimed softly as she peeked timidly out from behind a box she’d hid behind as she watched the scary looking standoff that she clearly wanted no part in. Helpy was peeking out too.

 _ ‘Oh _ _. Did she go and get Freddy despite being afraid of him? She’s learning.’_

 **‘Young Michael.’** Rumbled Goldy suddenly, and it took Mike a second to realize his ghost wasn’t addressing him.

So the night guard turned slowly in place, the original four at his back as he stared over at the spare Springbonnie suit that, until now, he had only heard and read about but never met.

The animatronic stared back, optics wide and stubbornly alive. Aside from the ears, the variations between this bonnie and Springtrap were getting easier and easier to catalogue, like some grotesque, surreal spot-the-difference game. Not-Springtrap’s metal, crusty fingers wriggled in apprehension as he eyed Mike right back, seeming to be waiting on making his move. Good. That was good. The Funtimes hunted him like animals possessed, often falling victim to programming without even questioning their motives, only trying to intently follow through with a command to trap and detain or kill coded into them.

But not this bunnybot. Not these two.

_‘The notes I found in Afton’s office down in Pizza World…’_

Wondering if he was doing the right thing, and wishing the Puppet were here, Mike took a breath, and exhaled, slowly, waiting. Freddy snarled from over his shoulder, and when the Springbonnie model flinched like he was struck, Mike made up his mind.

“Michael Afton…right?” Mike said.

The animatronic’s optics flickered to his eyes, and nodded slowly.

Behind him, Freddy growled louder, and maybe Mike was imaging things, but it sounded desperate and afraid more than anything else. Weird. Freddy wasn’t afraid of _anything._

Mike sighed, realizing this moment couldn’t last forever. Balloons had to pop or deflate eventually. 

“Okay, look, just…just everyone take it easy! Foxy—I see you. Knock it off.” Mike warned, holding a finger up at the moody fox, who grumbled but slunk back into place, his slow advance on the eldest Afton sibling halted.

Freddy himself was still a coiled spring ready to strike, and Mike knew that wouldn’t do anyone any good, least of all poor Michael, if the big bear snapped. 

“Freddy.” Mike focused solely on his best friend, his own wide eyes bleeding trust and fear and honesty, begging him to respond and understand what Mike was trying to do, not a word beside the bear’s name uttered between them.

 _“Please.”_ The night guard stressed, and miraculously, Fazbear stepped back, and his black and white optics clicked back to glass, but his lids remained lowered and impassive as he stared down the animatronic behind Mike’s shoulder.

Mike could breathe again, and he hoped the Suit behind him could relax a little more too.

“Okay. I…Michael?”

The Springbonnie model eyed him in much the same way Security Puppet had eyed Freddy and Bonnie yesterday. Like he was someone to be feared. Mike couldn’t tell if that was because he was Golden Freddy’s suit, or because he had just gotten the original four to obey a night guard in under a few minutes.

“Uh…can you speak?” Mike demanded.

“Sure. Fer now.” Came a cryptic, staticy answer. 

“Oh, alright.” He was too tired for this. “Well, then, _what the **hell**_ are you doing here?”

The original four snorted in amusement when Afton’s eldest stared.

“Swear jar.” Freddy grunted automatically, and Mike, without looking, dug a dollar from his pocket and slapped it into the big waiting paw behind him with a clap.

The poor Springbonnie model looked even more confused and lost.

“Well?” Mike demanded. “…ugh, look, let’s not talk here. If you promise not to attack me or the others, you can come inside the restaurant with us.”

“…what if I don’t promise?” snarked the animatronic without missing a beat, and making Mike’s eyes flit to the purple bunny on Freddy’s right. _Hm._

“Then I head inside, and you stay out here by yourself and keep rotting. But your shoulder and hip need a lot of work, and I can do that, **if** you don’t make me regret it.”

“Son!” Freddy snapped, cutting Mike off and looking shocked and insulted at him. Mike waved a noncommittal ‘everything’s fine and under control’ motion with his scarred hand, and hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

“Why should I tell you anything?” the Not-Springbonnie demanded, and for the first time Mike noted how muffled the young voice was. But it was certainly the voice he had heard earlier when he aimed the flashlight on the poor bonnie model.

“Because right now I’m the only thing keeping you from being the unfortunate victim of a bear attack,” Mike volleyed back, voice curt but not yelling. “So either you trust me like I’m trusting you, _or we’re gunna have a problem.”_

And though those eerie purple optics were tight with anxiety, the Springbonnie model nodded slowly, and shuffled after Mike.

“This is gunna be good,” Bonnie muttered to Chica, who clicked her beak in agreement, and Cakey’s wide eyes narrowed in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice going, Mike. Both of you. (The whole 'two Mikes' will be remedied in this chapter or next, don't worry. I won't let this story get confusing on yall.)


	5. You'd Better Go in Disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadass almost forgot to edit and upload this chapter. Oh! Don’t worry—the "two Michaels" issue will be resolved next chapter, I hope I wrote this so it wasn’t too confusing. After all, you guys know Mike, and he and Michael Afton are very different.

_To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.”_

* * *

**ACT I  
Chapter 5. You’d Better Go in Disguise**

Michael Afton _knew_ their luck would run out someday.

He had hoped, however, that it would at least last until the next day. Two days of good luck—good weather at night to travel, the snow holding off, a sheltered place to lie in wait for his father—had ended so abruptly he would have given any of the other good things up in exchange for avoiding _this._ The worst case scenario was Dad and Springtrap beating them and going on his way.

The _second_ worst case scenario was the Fazes—and their weird pet night guard—finding him. _Freddy_ finding him.

Honestly, if pressed to choose, Michael would have chosen his father. Afton, he could beat. Afton, he could over power and torment and make the bastard pay. But here, right now…

The only high ground was on Mike Schmidt’s side, and the man seemed to know it, even if he didn’t gloat outright.

Michael Afton fully expected to die back there, and he wondered if this night guard knew that, too. If he even understood the icy acceptance of knowing your life was going to be snuffed out like a candle, and that there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it. 

Michael eyed the scars carved across the man’s knuckles on his right hand as the brunette pushed open the door into the restaurant, and the ones jutting across his yellowed eye on the same side when he turned to check to make sure he was following the night guard as promised.

Maybe he did. He seemed like the type to play a part almost as well as Foxy, or Bonnie. Act like an airhead, and people slipped up. Act friendly and casual, and people let down their guard.

“Alright, we can talk here. Anyone who has anything they should be doing—“ Mike shot a look at Foxy and Bonnie, the latter who smirked and ignored him blithely, “maybe should get back to work.”

“And leave you with this copy-cat traitor?” Bonnie the bunny demanded when he realized he wasn’t getting his way, ears bobbing. “Oh, uh-uh, not for all the guitar picks in the world, Mike.”

Michael felt Scraptrap—it was always easy to feel Scraptrap when they were in Suit mode—bristle at the insult and he fought down a growl of his own. Some things never changed—Freddy’s anger hadn’t, and Bonnie models never getting along didn’t either. There was something comforting in that.

_‘Keep it zipped, man,’_ Michael moaned plaintively at his own bonnie model. _‘We’re already a jigsaw puzzle, just lemme think of a way out of this.’_

Michael ignored the burn of Freddy’s bright blue optics on him. He had to, otherwise he’d lose so many nerves he’d probably just disintegrate inside his bunny’s body. And that certainly wouldn’t get them anywhere!

“Let’s start with the obvious.” The night guard shoved sloppy bangs from his eyes—two colors? The other eye was blue and normal—and got right to the heart of the problem. 

“How are you doing that?” Mike demanded, so straight forward and inquisitive.

Michael—and Scraptrap—stared.

“…doing…what?” Michael finally asked.

“That whole,” the strange guy gestured inarticulately at them with his hands, “Combined together thing—and still able to—you’re not bleeding out?” He looked disturbed, almost…worried.

“You’re _not_ bleeding out are you?”

The Fazgang snorted, but seemed content to let their night guard give the eldest Afton sibling the third degree, as if used to the man’s questions and poking and prodding and general nosiness.

_‘Night guards lived longer when they didn’t ask questions. Look at Scott, after all.’_

So what the hell was this guy doing?

“Scraptrap and I are close. That’s all there is to it.” Michael said through gritted teeth. He’d said he’d behave, he didn’t say he’d tell the dude his life story. “What’s it to you, anyway? You know, _these_ guys are the ones you should be worried about. You’re even dressed in the old uniform. Honestly, just paint red and walk into a bull’s pen, you’ll live longer.”

“Well what am I supposed to wear? Freddy just about has kittens if I come to work out of the uniform.” The man rolled his eyes but it was fond, and for some reason Michael’s heart hurt. For an organ that could no longer beat or pump blood, it sure was making an awful racket lately.

“Yeah.” Summoning courage he didn’t know he had, Michael turned violet optics to the looming bearbot briefly, then back to the night guard and snarked, “You can thank me for that. I used to clean the joint in jeans and a t shirt, and he hated it.”

The night guard’s eyes light up in curiosity.

“At Fredbear’s Diner?”

“No, on the moon—yeah!” And when his tone got too snotty for Fazbear, he was given a low growl that made both him and Scrap clam up in brief, instinctive unease.

For some reason, the man’s face flitted to a relaxed grin. He turned fully to Bonnie now, and commented,

“I see where you get it from.”

Bonnie looked sour at the reminder, but just shrugged.

“I’m Mike—Mike Schmidt.”

“Great, now we got two Mike’s running around here and we don’t even _like_ the second one.”

“Could always rename’im,” Foxy muttered behind his hook at Chica, who giggled in wicked agreement.

“Look, we’ll leave. Don’t even have to ask—“ Scraptrap lurched in place toward the door they’d come, only for Bonnie and Chica to block his way when Mike held up a hand.

“Uh-uh. Next question, why didn’t Scraptrap kill me back there?” Mike asked. The tired stare on Freddy’s expressive face said silently what they were all thinking, which was something along the lines of: ‘why wasn’t this question number one, Mike?’

The combined bunnybot and corpse turned, ears flicking in instinctive confusion on Michael’s end. Scraptrap filled him in with flashes of memory, and his purple eyes blinked once in recognition.

“Oh. I told him not to. We’re not here for you.” He eyed the Fazes with less suspicion. Yes, they had blocked all attempts to escape, but no one had grabbed him physically to do so, and they obeyed Mike at the drop of a hat, as if attuned to the man for years, as if he was Uncle Henry himself. Interesting.

“They’re not hostile at all….are their kids gone?”

Alex certainly seemed to be. Foxy wouldn’t look at him with anything less than bared fangs and a narrowed glare, and he kept pacing around behind Schmidt’s back as if hoping for a chance to lunge. The thought was chilling—Foxy seemed more worn and older but his frame moved easily. Too easily for his age and for his damage that Michael knew he had. His endoskeleton had been repaired, but by who was the question.

It was Mike’s turn to be silent now, his gaze suddenly old and knowing and perceptive.

“Yeah. Story’s over, Michael.” Said Mike.

“Maybe yours is.” The eldest Afton sibling muttered back, but his gaze dropped in submission from Mike’s before he could stop it. Scraptrap whined softly.

“I never said _I_ was in it.” Was Mike’s cheerful reminder, and he leaned back on one hip, sighing thoughtfully. “I don’t know if this is gunna work.”

“My thoughts exactly! C’mon Foxy, let’s see if he fits inside of a—“

“Bonnie.” Mike warned with a finger and a warning stare.

The bunny grumbled, but when he saw Freddy giving his own patented-Fazbear Look, he backed off with an annoyed grunt.

“…my turn.” Michael decided, and forced the words out despite his fear, “You do that to Foxy?” they pointed with a rusty finger at the exposed joints in Foxy’s strong legs. Even behind his ratted and torn suit, he could see the job was a good one. If he and Scraptrap ran for it, they likely wouldn’t make it far. No wonder Mike wasn’t scared of them.

“Yeah.” Mike shrugged, as if this was no big deal. “I’m their technician, too. Went to school for that, technically.”

“So you became a _night guard?”_ Michael demanded icily, “At freakin’ _Freddy’s?”_

Mike shared a silent glance with the big brown bearbot at his side.

“Haven’t been in society for a while, have you, Afton?” Mike Schmidt apparently knew things about Michael Afton, and the dead teenager wasn’t sure he liked that. Scraptrap sure as hell didn’t.

“Don’t call me that.” Michael warned, and this time his anger was so strong not even Freddy’s growl could get him to back down.

“Well calling you ‘Michael’ is weird…” Schmidt shrugged.

“Too bad.” Why should he feel sorry for this dude? “Pretty sure I’m older than you, so I get seniority.”

“Do you?” For some reason this comment made Mike smile, and it was startlingly kind and light. “You’re younger than me, I think.” ‘At least, you were when you died.’ Mike wisely held his tongue at that little remark though.

“Last question,” Michael said, “You mean what you said back there? About our shoulder?”

“Hip, too. Socket looks busted, and you keep swaying to the right…screws stripped?”

“Yeah, because they’re fu—“ Freddy arched a brow and Michael Afton swept through the word on instinct he didn’t know was still around, trying to protect a wallet no longer filled with money, “—freakin’ plastic. It’s all I had.”

Mike’s eyebrows rose and nearly vanished behind his sloppy bangs.

“Any more parts like that?” and for some reason unknown to Michael, the guy sounded concerned.

“Some.” He said diplomatically. “I dunno bout letting you _do_ it, but you can watch. And help. _Maybe.”_

“Sounds fair. Freddy?” said Mike with that same playful, infuriating smile.

_‘Well so much for that—‘_

“Fine, son.” Fazbear eyed Scraptrap with outward distaste, but he backed off some from Mike, allowing the night guard room to move, which the man did.

“C’mon Captain.” Mike beckoned with his scarred hand.

“What about us!?” Bonnie demanded, taking a hopeful step at them anyway.

“You and Freddy can move all the arcade machines back into place. Plus find a spot for Candy Cadet. And Chica—“

“I’ve got all the pots and pans out, Mikey. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me~” Chica glanced at Scraptrap, who had the decency to lean away slowly when her smile showed her second set of teeth. “With all those big sharp knives. Just in case.”

Mike snorted, but said nothing. Just smiled and shook his head fondly.

“Okay. Follow me.” Mike said, and that bothered Michael too. This night guard was far too chipper and chill to be, well, _normal._ Something was up with the man standing so nonchalant, so at ease, before him and among haunted animatronics that, in Michael’s well-seasoned opinion, were better off deactivated and dismantled. Mike Schmidt was friendly, and it seemed hard for others—even Freddy—to not like the guy, be drawn in by his calmness and ease.

His dad had been described as charismatic too, in his younger years at least. Before he and Springbonnie had lost their collective minds. 

* * *

Mike Schmidt watched in rapt and obvious fascination, settled in a chair backwards with his arms folded over the back.

Michael Afton and Scraptrap weren’t anything like they’d been described on paper.

Those words had been Afton’s words, though, and Mike couldn’t say he was surprised at the lies he read from their father’s pen.

‘Disruptive.’ Said the notes on the combined Suit souls.

“Gimmie that wrench, man, and my walkman.” Michael asked without looking up from his work, the purple corpse bent over his bunny’s open and worst leg. Scraptrap handed the wrench over and then reached into his chest, moving something aside so casually that Mike felt just a bit queasy. The rustling of wires and metal didn’t help. He pulled out an old cassette player plus headphones, but Michael’s hand met him halfway—he was missing his left pinkie, Mike noticed—and shook his head. He pushed the walkman back toward the bunny’s center, where it was hidden from view, and Scraptrap grunted in surprise and askance.

“Gotta stay alert, dude.” He reminded the bunny, who glanced at Mike irritably but nodded.

The walkman vanished back into Scraptrap’s torso.

‘Uncontrollable.’ Afton had scrawled, his handwriting pouring anger and annoyance.

Scraptrap’s metal fingers—more dexterous and human than the original four’s due to Scrap’s role as a human shape suit—moved and swiped the air, curling as he gestured down to Michael, who was looking up now to read the bunnyboy’s paws.

**“Not** until dad shows his ugly face. “ Michael said sternly. “ _Then_ we start ripping heads off. Until then…we gotta get you reinforced. Show room new if I can. Capice?”

Whatever Scraptrap signed, it seemed to be an agreement because the conversation ended there. Mike wondered what violence he had just avoided. Beside him and leaning on the counter, Foxy yawned lazily, and the motion just so happened to show off the many remaining teeth that were far too sharp to be anything other than brutal. Scraptrap and Michael both noticed it, but any wary looks were reserved for the night guard himself—mostly because Mike sensed his captain’s unease and reached back without thinking to stroke that big muzzle soothingly. He stopped when the jaw creaked closed behind him and Foxy huffed.

‘Uncaring—a disgrace to the family.’ 

“Does that hurt? Yeah?” Michael’s voice was feather soft as he rubbed his hand over the bunny’s arm, “M’sorry, I’ll be gentle. I promise…I got you.”

Scraptrap relaxed slowly, silently, and nodded. He was staring down at Michael Afton with such a familiar look that Mike almost didn’t recognize it. Then he did, because it was a gaze Freddy gave him just about every damn day—a look of trust and adoration, of _love._

‘Better to be dismantled, retrofitted. Needs new Suit.’ ‘Suit’ had been capitalized, the word so chilling and matter-of-fact that Mike remembered even Gold shifted in unease at the very concept.

Splitting these two up would be more for William’s sick idea of torture than anything good for them, Mike realized. His stomach twisted, those slippery snakes were back and causing a slow burn of anxiety to filter up his frame.

Granted, Scraptrap was not show room new, and likely would never be that way again.

But he wasn’t in the shape Springtrap was.

He wasn’t in the shape Goldy was either, so powerful but so ethereal and anchored to Mike Schmidt, but somewhere in the middle perhaps.

Strong enough to be dangerous, that was for sure.

Mike’s gaze flitted from the two down to Helpy, who toddled happily around Michael’s kneeling from and picked up an awl to inspect. A second later Michael groped for it, saw where it was and snorted, his violet eyes actually softening a fraction.

“I need that, man.” He gently pried the tool free, only to replace it instantly with a tool Michael hadn’t touched yet. “Here, play with this.”

Satisfied, Helpy wandered across the distance to show Mike the wrench.

“I see, little bear.” Mike chuckled despite himself.

“You build him?” it took Mike a moment to realize the eldest Afton child was addressing him, and gesturing with a curt nod at the plastic Funtime model.

“What? Oh, no. Henry built Helpy.” Mike paused. “I guess.”

“Really? He looks like the Funtimes. That’s not Uncle Henry’s style.” Michael said superiorly.

Mike leaned forward, interest absolutely snared. Behind him, Foxy’s optics flicked to the ceiling, silently praying to gods that wouldn’t recognize him.

“You know about them?”

“Yeah. Dad made em after…after I died. After Scrap here _didn’t_ die, but came to Life.” Michael held his words back, glared warily at Mike and buried himself back into his work. His fingers looked stiff and were a horrible shade of purple-grey, his fingernails black and chipped. While the color looked appropriate for the kid’s 80’s punk look, Mike had a feeling there was no nail polish involved.

But the kid moved with careful assurance and calm faith in his own hands. Foxy thought he looked just like their night guard working on one of them, but shrewdly kept that thought to himself.

“He made them after your sister died, too Michael.” Mike had spent _hours_ playing games with the Marionette, teaching the curious little puppet everything from Snakes and Ladders to Gin Rummy. Marion had taken to each and every game like a champ, but he preferred cards most of all.

And sometimes in poker you had to show your hand a little.

Michael’s hand slipped, the awl clattering along the floor. Foxy raised his head from where it was resting, and he and Scraptrap had a quiet stare down as the humans did as well.

“You been down there?” the dead teen demanded, tone tight as Bonnie’s guitar strings.

“Unfortunately.” Mike nodded.

_“Recently?”_ And now Michael moved, keeping a leg under him bent up as he braced on one knee and glared across Parts and Service at Mike Schmidt.

“Erh—yeah,” knowing full well he had been placed on trial, and that perhaps he had shown too much of his hand before the call, the man winced.

_“You_ were the reason they got out!?” and when the teen stands, Foxy does too. Only Foxy’s motion comes with a growl so deep even Mike startled a bit. Michael Afton smartly didn’t flinch back, but his eyes narrowed and blazed. For some reason, the kid looked betrayed and hurt, the same look he had given Freddy earlier.

“Captain, it’s okay—he’s upset, he has every right to be—“

“Damn right I do!” Michael seemed to know who you could and couldn’t swear around, which was interesting. _“I_ was supposed to be there! That was my job you took, you know that? You ruined everything!”

Mike straightened up in interest. “Your job—?”

“Dad told me to go down there and turn on Circus Baby.” Behind him, Scraptrap shifted in rusty unease and dislike, but he was grumbling up at Michael now. Something unspoken passed between the two living, visible Suits and Mike felt a tiny pang of jealously. He couldn’t talk with Goldy like that, so effortlessly.

“Only you weren’t going down there to do that, were you.” Mike finally mused. “You were going down there to deactivate her. And she knew that, maybe. We know she was the one who pretended to be FazCo, to lure me down there...”

“I had to. You’ve seen her, what she’s like now.” Michael stooped to pick up the awl, his hand quivering. “She’s _not_ Henrietta. She’s not even _human.”_

“Looked in the mirror lately, swabbie?” Foxy muttered darkly at the teenage corpse, and this time he shied away, that look of hurt lancing through his gaze.

“Foxy.” Mike hushed.

Foxy lapsed into obedient silence, but made no move to apologize. Mike didn’t blame him.

“Anyway. Now I got the Funtimes **and** Dad to worry about. Thanks for that.” Michael snapped tersely.

“Oh, welcome. Anytime.” Mike snorted right back, tone dipped in sarcasm. “Except _this_ job really is mine, this time. You can ask your Uncle Henry if you want—although I think you’re too scared of him to do so. So take my word for it; **I’m** the night guard here, Michael. We’ll get rid of them together, agreed? It’s like Freddy always says, many paws—

“—make light work.” Michael finished.

Something odd passed between them, and Mike Schmidt nodded. There was one more rule of poker, and that was that the house always wins. He and Michael couldn’t afford to be at odds so much that they let Afton slither away again.

“Exactly.” He sighed, feeling this was as far as he was going to get. He stood, moving back from the chair he had been straddling. “I gotta finish some chores for the night. Henry’s coming back in the morning, I think. The back door is where—“

“Where they’ll come. Yeah.” Michael winced, as if remembering something, and Scraptrap scratched at an ear as if distracted by a memory. “We know.”

“Good.” Mike hummed, then crouched and gestured Helpy into his space. “I’ve got a very important job for you, little bear. You keep an eye on these two, awright Helpy? Hey—focus, look at me.”

Michael snorted, but turned away, trying to focus on Scraptrap’s busted and cracked hip.

“Come get me or Freddy if something happens you don’t like. Do a good job and you can have as many rides on the Rocket as you want, yeah?”

Helpy perked right up, dropping the wrench in eager shock and saluted, looking more adorable than serious. He turned and beelined right for Scraptrap, standing fearlessly between the bunnyboy’s straightened legs. Scraptrap chuffed down at him but seemed more amused than insulted.

“When Scraptrap’s repaired, come find me. We can discuss how we’re gunna handle this.”Mike saw the teen’s wary glance at the clock on the wall. “Right, unless it’s day time. You and Scraptrap better hang low if Henry’s here.”

“Can we go back to the warehouse across the way?”

“No.” said Mike, then smiled. “I’m not that convinced yet, kid. I won’t make you wear one of SP’s tracker bands though. Don’t give me a reason to.”

Michael Afton grouched, but admitted, “Fair.”

“And **don’t** try an run, boy.” Foxy warned.

“Right. Foxes chase rabbits, huh Captain?” Mike snorted but this seemed less a threat and more affectionate amusement aimed at the captain who he was currently tugging a red ear fondly.

Scraptrap answered this time, making a gesture that Mike or Foxy didn’t understand. Mike blinked but noticed the corpse was snickering.

“I’ll guess that was a phrase that would have cost him a dollar for the swear jar.”

“More like five dollars, but yeah,” Michael smirked wickedly, and it was the first sign of life the night guard saw.

He and Foxy left the Suit of Scraptrap and Scraptrap himself in Parts and Services. Mike counted to five in his head, and decided now was a good a time as any to cast a line in the water, see what hooked.

“I think he was hoping your old spirit was in your suit.” Mike wondered, and Foxy nodded.

“He was, aye. Shame Alex ain’t though.” Said Foxy, and then spoke strictly, “And the lad needs to stay on his side of the restaurant, in that dream world o’his, not come wandering inta’ ours too much.”

True—Foxy had already drawn the Nightmare leader over to their side once this week. Anymore and they could risk opening doors that, like someone very wise had once warned Mike, were better left closed.

“The Nightmares maybe more agreeable but they’re not tamed, true.” The first scent of fear and they were sharks in the water finding a trace of blood. Michael had plenty to be scared of here, and that could set off the Nightmares to the point even Nightmare Foxy may not be able control them—or worse, make him join in on the tormenting. Kid looked at Freddy like the big bear was holding a loaded shotgun pointed at him.

“You’ve called Alex over once anyway.” And told Mike about Security Puppet’s shrouded, confused history. “You’re right. I just thought maybe…”

“…maybe what, lad?”

“Maybe seeing Alex would help Michael open up to us. At least a little.”

“And maybe it’ll make him lose it more.”

Mike grumbled, but didn’t argue. Foxy had a good point.

“Rough seas don’t make for smooth sailors, lad.” Foxy reminded under his speakers. But his ears drooped, betraying his statement. “What Michael’s told ye confirms a lot of what ye already knew. He was planning ta Terminate them Funtimes. Kill his little sister. Those two have been through far too much to ever be normal again. Maybe…”

“Maybe what, Foxy?” asked Mike.

“Maybe, like the black devil, Death will be a welcome reprieve for ‘em both.”

The implication of what should be done to the two in the repair room sent icy fingers tapping up Mike’s spine. He loved his family more than anything, but he would never, could never, forget what they had done and been used to do. How it changed the way they saw the world.

And Foxy, of all of them, had been haunted longer than Freddy or Chica, or even Scraptrap.

“Stop right there, Foxy.” Mike said, and his tone was chilly. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh, aye, ye never want to hear it lad, yer just like Captain Faz.” It was a compliment, but a stilted one, and Mike’s expression told Foxy he knew that. “But maybe ye need to.”

“Then it won’t be anything I haven’t heard before, okay? So drop it.”

Foxy grunted in reprimand, and Mike sagged.

“…sorry.”

“Sometimes, ye need to let sleeping dogs lie, Mike.” Foxy said. “No matter how much ye think they ought to be woken up.”

Mike frowned softly, wondering why that sounded like a warning for something he had already done. He wasn’t sure what though, and as they crossed by the stage, he was completely and utterly oblivious to the single optic tracking him from where Lefty stood, stoic and still.

* * *

“Foxy hasn’t found anything off about that creep up there?” Bonnie demanded as he glanced over his shoulder. On the stage, Lefty stood in the exact same spot Mike and Henry had placed him.

“No. And _midnight's_ come and gone.”

“Maybe he’s like the freaky Funtimes—only goes off around children?” Bonnie asked, more to himself than his best friend. But he snared Freddy’s interest and the big bear looked up from his work of pushing the repaired arcade machines back into play and making sure their cords were out of the way. Little ones needed no more reasons to trip and hurt themselves. He found nothing of interest on stage—shabby and silent Lefty stood with head half cocked and jaw hanging just a fraction too wide, his grip on his mike slack and lowered. Freddy found more interest watching the demure little Security Puppet, who was peeking out of her box to check on the restaurant as she did at the start of every hour. Mike had noticed the pattern immediately and encouraged her to follow whatever programming she had that made her feel comfortable and in control.

“Could be, Bon.” Freddy watched SP lower the lid on her box with a content chime and went back to his own work.

“Foxy wouldn’t be able to pick up a programming thing, only a ghost-thing, right?”

“Right.” Freddy eyed the black bearbot. “But he don’t _look_ like the Funtimes Afton designed.”

“Maybe that’s why he designed him like that.”

Freddy hummed, but didn’t seem convinced.

“Let’s get that Cadet fellow plugged in, Bon. We can speculate later.”

“You just wanna get done Mike’s chores and then go check on him and—uh, the _other_ Mike.” This was going to get confusing!

“And why shouldn’t I? Lad’s lost his blasted mind.” Fazbear growled as he moved the slumped over Candy Cadet off his dolly. “He knows better than to trust an Afton!”

“I don’t think he’s trusting him, but, yeah. Still,” Bonne shrugged and shoved a strange game called _Midnight Motorist_ back against the wall, wriggling it a few times. “That’s Mike for ya. He’s dumb, but he’s ours.”

“I’ll worry about Lefty when he does something he shouldn’t. As for Scraptrap…”

“That’s not really fair, is it Faz?” Bonnie teased, but his stare was knowing and curious. “Because right now all Afton Jr’s done is exist and ya hate him.”

Freddy shot a look, but didn’t deign Bon’s words with an answer.

His silence was its own reply anyway.

“Not that I blame you! I kinda hate the little punk to.” Bonnie glanced over at his guitar forlornly, then muttered, “He left us…”

“He became his father is what he did.” Freddy snapped crossly. “If Mike weren’t here…”

“We’d be making stuffed crust pizza, only hold the cheese and the pizza. I geddit, I’m with you, Faz. But we can’t. You know how Mike is with killing.” The bunny rolled his pink eyes in exasperation.

“Puppet was right.” Freddy grunted, so off the cuff even his best friend shot him a strange look. When Freddy noticed the bunnys raised eyebrows, the old bear shook his head in mild, if bemused, frustration. “Just…sumthin’ it used to say bout Mike. How sentimental he was, and how…hard it was to think like him.”

“Oh.” Said Bonnie, and then he clammed up, one of his clever ears twitching. Freddy took the bunny’s cue, knowing he likely heard something Freddy didn’t, or couldn’t. A second later this silence was answered when Mike and Foxy’s voice filtered down the long hall.

“You guys finished?” Mike’s voice came to them as he and Foxy wandered into the main area. “Hey, awesome! I might do a test run on some’a these games but most of them, I think, will play just fine on opening day.”

“That’d be…Saturday, right son?” Freddy queried as he wriggled _Midnight Motorist_ just so. Mike came over to watch and shot him a casual smile, hands on his hips.

“Yep.”

“And our… _guests?”_ Freddy didn’t look up from his work, but his tone was razor sharp. “They gunna be here too, then? When the place is bustlin’, and _full?”_

Mike’s smile slipped like a man in dress shoes on ice. “I…uh…dunno. Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You haven’t thought tha’ far ahead.” Freddy repeated in his most unimpressed, exhausted drawl.

“Well , alright, give me a minute!” Mike said, “…okay, give me a few minutes.”

“Ya got four days Bambi,” Bonnie retorted. “Maybe four, if Henry doesn’t find em first and flip his lid.” Henry was someone Mike could not control or calm down, and the man sensed that warning.

“Would he really do that? I mean, look, Scrap and Michael don’t seem so dangerous, and it’s not like—“

_“They could’a killed you, boy!”_ Freddy’s fist came down on the curled screen of _Midnight Motorist,_ and it thudded in feeble protest. The bear grumbled at his own reaction and sharply lifted his paw to check for damage.

“…you’re lucky these games are built with plastic instead’a glass, big guy.” Mike warned, and this time his own tone was flat and quiet. Disappointed.

“That all ya got ta say?” Fazbear finally demanded, his tone glacial.

Mike eyed him, his lips pressed thin, before he puffed out a noise of exasperation—this earned him a glare from Freddy for his perceived petulance—and motioned.

“Come with me, Freddy. C’mon. Bonnie—you help Foxy. And keep your ears up. If those two do anything—“

“Oh, I will be delighted to tattle on those two intruders,” Bonnie crowed with delight, “You bet your last Fazcoin on that, Mikey-boy.”

Their night guard rolled his eyes, but marched for his office, knowing Freddy was behind him.

The animatronic always was.

* * *

Michael Afton had been right on two counts. One, it was raining. And two, his luck had run out.

Because despite the frigid sprinkles, a figure was moving through the forest. It wasn’t easy, and the worn cloth over its shape only kept some of the rain out, but it rocked and wobbled on its way nevertheless. Existence is something done by stubborn individuals, and it was one of the most stubborn souls on this good green Earth. 

Soft light blazed through the drawn windows of the brand new, unopened pizzeria. The neon sign flared brightly, so bright, almost as if planes were going to be allowed to land in the parking lot.

As the figure neared, the S in Freddy’s began to flicker. It was very subtle, and very soft, but it flickered in weak winks of warning.

A ragged ear poked from the mess of cloth, and the figure lurched to a swaying, off-timed stop.

“Do you hear that?” William Afton rasped, voice barely a breath, little more than a squelch through the clogged speakers in his green and grey rotted chest.

_“I do.”_ Whispered a flat tone.

“Fascinating, isn’t it? So…loud.” He drawled conversationally, ignorant and uncaring of almost anything else—certainly even the second voice buried deep inside his mind.

_“It is.”_

“What a deceptive calling. I knew it was a lie the moment I heard it, obviously, but it is intriguing nonetheless…wouldn’t you say so, old friend?”

Springtrap, tired and worn in more ways than one, answered in his head so mechanically that Mike’s heart would have broken _, “Yes, Billy.”_

And so Afton grinned—well, in truth he was _always_ grinning—but this time he meant it, rotted and sticky teeth clenched and lower eyelid plates creaking up, making his purple optics sharpen as he eyed the buildings across the way.

And from the forest, he lurched.

“They may not recognize us at first, but I’ll assure them…it’s still me.”

* * *

**END ACT I.**  
 _“But then the demon, much too soon  
returned one Sunday afternoon.”_ –Edward Gorey


	6. Dead Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God so we’re officially on second-winter here in upstate. And all I wanna do is sleep in my Optimus Prime hoodie and read spooky stories or watch A Haunting. Why do we not hibernate like bears?

_We ask only to be reassured about the noises in the cellar and the window that should not have been open.-_ T.S. Eliot

* * *

**ACT II  
Chapter 6. Dead Hearts**

Mike watched as Freddy stepped into the biggest supply closet, and closed the door behind him. Were it anyone else that saw Fazbear shutting the door to lock them both in here, they might be worried. Certainly, a normal person would be a little uneasy, and they would be justified. If they knew Freddy’s history, they would be downright petrified, if they had any brains at all. Thankfully, even when Mike used to have every right, he lacked enough common sense to panic whenever Freddy used to corner him. But those nights were long gone, and now, the bearbot’s near constant presence brought only comfort and safety for one Mike Schmidt. Freddy was big, though not as big as old Fredbear, and he and Mike knew that.

They also both knew Mike refused to pull rank on the original four if he could help it; Fredbear was the oldest, living animatronic left. His seniority backed up what his girth and presence already proclaimed _very_ loudly. He was the leader. He was in charge. He was unquestioned, or someone was going to be dismantled, especially if they pushed enough that he bit back.

And when Gold was not out, Mike was all that. Otherwise Gold _would_ come out, and no one wanted that. With the exception of a certain Puppet, Goldy remained relatively unchallenged, especially after Nightmare was defeated and Nightmare Foxy and his gang displayed no aggression at them. And the Marionette, as his mind so traitorously and continuously reminded Mike, was gone.

“Okay, let’s hear it.” Mike broached, wondering how literally he would have to be when it came to _poking the bear._

“Think I said my peace already, son.” For once the fond nickname was said icily. He was in trouble, and while he understood the how, he didn’t quite understand the reason why. Mike’s worried frown melted a bit, as he eyed the big bearbot’s tight posture and down turned eye plates and slack paws that twitched every so often. All Freddy’s usual signs for displeasure and growing restlessness.

Freddy was worried, but beyond that he was _afraid._

“No, you didn’t. Not all of it, then.” Mike settled on a folding chair he kicked out, arms draped comfortably over his legs as he relaxed, and this posture also conveniently put himself visibly lower than the head of the Fazgang. It was a gesture of calm submission, and it did help. Mike had no reason to be afraid of him anymore, no desire to be controlling or to bully the stubborn bear into getting his own way. The man was maybe a little tired from general stress, but he wasn’t unhappy. He was confused, Freddy could see that. And when Mike was confused, Mike wanted answers.

“What did I miss, Freddy?”

Even better, Mike wasn’t Afton. He wasn’t King, the man’s nephew who had taken over the restaurant and also the Fazes. He wasn’t even Henry, who seemed changed and absent and _Not-Quite-There_ in a way that bothered old Faz greatly, but the details as to Why and How he couldn’t place his paw on just yet. No, Mike Schmidt was uniquely Mike Schmidt. And most of the time, Freddy admired the scrawny guy a great deal, with how strongly he loved and how confident and clever he could be when the chips were down.

And yet…

Mike was stubborn as he was, just in different ways. And that could get old, especially when Freddy knew he was the pot calling the kettle black and Mike knew that too. Freddy sighed in frustration, and looked away. He knew he owed the young man an explanation, but his speakers felt frozen. Words wouldn’t come. Silence smothered them both for a long while, in the closet with its one light bulb on and surrounded by bleach and mops and buckets and boxes.

“You can tell me anything big guy, you know that.” Mike coaxed, in his most calmest and softest tone and, despite himself, Freddy felt a bit of him give way and crumble. “Hey, c’mon. Look, don’t I come to you with all my sh—crap? You always put up with me.”

“That boy’s dangerous, Michael. And he don’t belong here.” It was an honest statement, but a loaded one.

Remembering a long ago conversation he had with the Puppet about Jeremy Fitzgerald’s son, Mike nodded in ponderous thought. Alright then. Right to it. Mike loved and missed the Puppet, but you had to admire Fazbear’s refusal at beating around a bush. He tended to chop it off with one go, blunt as a knife.

“…okay. Uh, fair. New restaurant. Nice, _shiny_ new restaurant. And I know you. You’re worried about the joint because of your programming, about the kids that will be here on Saturday because you remember, and you’re definitely worried about me. Because you _always_ worry about me, because you care.” Mike’s touched little smirk made Freddy grumble, having absolutely been caught. He folded his thick arms and let Mike pick apart his words, hearing nothing that wasn’t truthful, and so not bothering to protest what were facts. Clever little punk!

“Lots of rooms to hide, a whole other freakin’ building out back that could still be hiding god knows what. SP might not be able to do her job and track kids if she’s so skittish. Add in a Suit we’ve never met before that looks just like Springtrap and Afton. One that seems…as bonded as me and Goldy. That means they’re strong, made of tougher stuff than our usual threats. They don’t argue like Springtrap and Afton. They aren’t unhinged like Circ and her Funtimes.” Mike puzzled through his words, trying to latch onto Freddy’s logic with what little he had to go off of. That was just like Mike, always taking things apart, needing to know how it worked. He did it with tech, and he did it with people. To him, Freddy was both. And to him, Freddy was one of his favorite peoples.

“But I’m here. And Gold’s here. And **you’re** here—and you’d _never_ let anything happen to me or this joint.” The night guard’s tone was so assured and trusting it almost made Freddy ache—he knew he was a rare AI, knew that by all rights he shouldn’t be able to Understand and Feel like any living soul as much as he could—but that didn’t stop his damnable emotions from carrying on like they were.

“And if he’s not with us, he’d be somewhere else.” Mike went on, “Getting up to who knows what. And that _is_ dangerous—here, I can keep an eye on him. We all can.”

A good, logical statement from a good, logical man. Freddy huffed, glaring into the storage space moodily.

“Fine. Then I’ll put ‘em both down if I have to, Michael.” Fazbear warned without hesitation, and Mike winced.

“Between you an’ Foxy? I think Michael Afton and Scraptrap are the ones in the most danger…”

“Good.” said Freddy, who finally seemed to be loosening up, letting his anger make his words flow. “Then the little brat will be here finally and answer for what he did, and not slip out of it like he always—” and then Freddy saw Mike’s eyes flash in interest, and clammed up.

“What _did_ he do?” Mike demanded. Saint’s preserve him; Mike’s curiosity would forever be leading them both into trouble. And usually, Freddy could get them both out of it. But this time…this time, Freddy wasn’t so sure. The game and it’s rules seemed different this time, and these long nights seemed to be building up to something. Really, it had everyone on edge.

“Ya’ found yer answers when ya stumbled on the purple man’s office down in _Pizza World.”_

“Maybe I didn’t find everything.” Mike mused, half to himself, half to his best friend. “I’m starting to see the bigger picture here, and I won’t be getting any more clues from Afton’s writing and research notes. Too skewed.”

“An’ you won’t be getting nuthin’ from that whippersnapper, either.” Faz jerked his thumb over his shoulder before he could stop himself.

“Especially not if we keep jumping on him for everything little thing.” It was about as scolding as Mike wanted to get, but Freddy couldn’t blame him.

“If we all expect Michael Afton to misbehave and act like the villain, then that’s what he’s going to end up as. _Right,_ Freddy? He’s just a kid…” Mike paused,

“Come to think of it, he’s a teenager, right? Well, he died as a teenager. Eighteen is still a kid. Which means Bonnie _should_ have already started easing off him…”

“Bon knows better, that’s why.”

“And Bonnie also follows you over his protocols.” Mike pointed out. “As much as that’s a conflict of interest…I can’t say I’m surprised. And I can’t ask Bonnie to do what he did for Danny, either, and try to bond with him. Scraptrap’s sure as heck not gunna let that happen.”

It was a well known fact most Bonnie models did not get along. Especially Springtrap and their purple bunny. Mike had learned that years ago when he booted up Springtrap and got to know the bunny sans Afton’s terrible and controlling presence. For as immature and cocky and loud Bonnie the bunny was, Springtrap was his polar opposite. He was calm and assured and quiet. He even liked reading, and would go hours with a book in his grimy paws, devouring every readable thing silently whatever Mike brought him. Sometimes he liked music, but it was always classical, and demure and soft tunes made with pianos or saxophones. Even then, he never listened to much. And he only ever seemed miserable when he heard music with a guitar in it.

After meeting Bonnie, Springtrap, and even Toy Bon, Mike had decided one thing.

‘The only thing two Bonnie models will agree on—is that the third Bonnie model is wrong.’

Freddy eyed the night guard’s expression, and like always, seemed to read his mind.

“…ah’reckon yer right. Even if they’re as good together as you say, that rotted fellow’s still a rabbit. No one can top you an’ Fredbear, though.””

“Cept maybe Mari and Arthur, yeah.” But those two were gone, and this time it was Freddy’s turn to stare at Mike sympathetically and sadly, especially when the night guard’s two toned eyes widened in sheepish remorse and surprise at his own instinct.

“Well—erh, they **were,** anyway.” Mike coughed in embarrassment, “Thick as thieves, I mean.”

“Ah’know you miss him, Michael.” Freddy rumbled. “And…and ah’ know this ain’t easy for ya, what with the little Security Gal and that brat here.” You could be surrounded by family and still feel alone, Freddy supposed.

“He just…he promised me he’d always be there for me, Freddy.” Mike was suddenly fidgeting, rubbed his fist into his golden eye wearily. “And the one time I screw up, the one time he needed me most…and I wasn’t there, was I? And now he’ll never be here again.”

“Oh, son…” with everything going on in the recent day or so, it was easy to forget Mike’s internal monologue these days seemed nothing more than weary, annoyed disgust at himself. That no matter how much time passed, the Puppet’s traumatic death had gouged such deep wounds into Mike’s soul they might never heal. Oh, sure, he’d been doing well for a while, as the years had leaked by Mike and Gold had gotten closer. He and Freddy had too. The night guard got Springtrap up and running in Parts and Services—though the bunny’s legs were rusted and ruined and he couldn’t leave the battery he was hooked up to. Springtrap didn’t seem to mind, and Mike was happy to keep him company. The restaurant slowed in business, until one day they turned twenty tables, and then the next week only eight or so. Then nothing. The customers stopped, but the bills did not. The restaurant closed. The gang withered away, bit by ancient bit.

Through it all, Mike was still alright. Still himself. He didn’t seem to have time to mourn the missing Puppet, or perhaps he was this entire time and Freddy was too focused on other things to notice his friend’s quiet heartache.

After Circus Baby had tricked Mike, the man’s resolve had been weakened like the old stage. He felt that if he were smarter, or faster or stronger, he wouldn’t have fallen for the trap set by the Funtimes. Danny wouldn’t have come down to find him, almost losing his life too. Mike couldn’t have dealt with that, Freddy knew. Bonnie wasn’t the only one relieved that the day guard had made it through unscathed, even if he was a bit suspicious on how the kid managed to do it. (He bought the story about Springtrap helping him, but beyond that? Freddy wasn’t sure—but the idea of Something Else that they couldn’t place helping Danny still put him on edge.)

And Freddy was sure that Mike also felt that if Marion were with him, he wouldn’t have gotten into the trouble he did. Even Freddy had to agree to that. The Puppet would have known what Mike was up to, would have followed him down and dragged him back out, and not given a damn if Mike hated or feared him or not. That was the nice thing about being the Marionette—it did not care about Fredbear’s opinion at the end of the day, and could wholly be regarded as selfish as it was expectant to get its way. And while Marion was fond of them all, especially his Goldy, the Puppet absolutely regarded the golden Suit as a tool and a weapon, a safety measure. That cold, computer-calculating personality was part of the reason everyone—especially Freddy—was so surprised when the deadly little creature started becoming so outwardly fond of Mike Schmidt, especially during those first five nights. Mike was, on paper, every bit the sort of person the Marionette usually refused to bother with. Chatty, over-friendly, curious as a puppy and ten times as good-hearted. He thought the best revenge for any ill will was good hearted fun, and it took a lot to get the man actually upset. The Puppet was not in the business of being good hearted, it was in the business of dead hearts. More specifically, bringing dead hearts back to life when it—or Arthur—felt they should be brought back.

Perhaps everyone answered to Golden Freddy (and subsequently Mike,) but Golden Freddy answered to the Puppet.

Not for the first time, Freddy wondered who the Puppet answered to.

But, alas, Mike had snuck off to the underground the first few times by himself, utterly alone and completely out of his element. All alone and confused and hopeful against the Fazgang’s and Springtrap’s wishes. Freddy blamed himself for a lot of what happened, too. Mike had, of course, refused this. It wasn’t Faz’s fault Mike had disobeyed them. It wasn’t Faz’s fault Mike had assumed he could get through to the Funtimes and befriend them.

Freddy knew he had Mike’s forgiveness already. But it was now he was realizing the young man wasn’t even close to forgiving himself.

“C’mere, Michael,” and that was all it took.

Mike rose, stumbled into the bear’s space and collapsed his skinny self forward, burying his damp face in Freddy’s front and hugging back when the bear swept him to his girth and hugged him just tight enough to be secure and protective but not enough to hurt.

“Yer’alright,” Freddy attempted, deep voice calm as he could muster, and passed a cursory paw down the man’s bony shoulders until they stopped quivering so.

It was what Mike needed to hear, and perhaps from anyone else he wouldn’t have bought it. But Freddy had a way of making you feel that, truly, you were alright and so would everything else be. Eventually, anyway. Henry was right, when he was recalling Freddy Fazbear’s personality. The old fellow was loyal to the last screw.

Mike sank deeper into that familiar bear hug a moment longer, and when Freddy shifted Mike misread his action—thinking the big gruff leader was pulling away. When the night guard tightened his grip in response, the action was so childish and charming Freddy froze then laughed, his voice a soft little tenor that reverberated gently into Mike’s lean frame.

“No, ah’ain’t goin’ nowhere, son.” Freddy chuckled again, and a paw the size of Mike’s head ruffled his dark brown hair fondly. “Haven’t left ya alone, yet, have I?”

Mike sniffed, and trusted himself to pull back, his grip slackening to a more comfortable lean.

“Nope.” He popped the p, and slowly cracked a smile. “And you better not, either, Mr. Fazbear. I’d be lost without you.”

“Well—while I don’t quite agree with ya there, son,” Freddy drew back and straightened the man’s clothes with a firm but fond tug and fussing motion. He even straightened the man’s official little gold badge. “I appreciate the sentiment. But you, Michael Schmidt, can do anything ya set that mind a’yours to.

You always have.”

Mike smiled, but it was weak and thin and didn’t quite meet his eyes.

* * *

Daybreak was coming, and it was coming very slowly. Foxy was sure there was a sun behind those stale, grey clouds somewhere, but for the life of him he had no idea where it was. Only, that it was up. It must be.

No night lasted forever, not even after Death. Not before it neither, and Foxy supposed he could consider himself Reasonably and Mostly Still Alive, which was odd as it was comforting. Sure, he was a walking, talking, animatronic fox that was only so clever and so natural _because_ he had a teenager stuffed inside of him and the lad’s soul had lingered. Alongside Alex Afton, Foxy the Pirate had come to Life. And not just that, but his personality had developed too, blossoming like one of the little herbs cook kept in her kitchen on the sill.

Many people called the Fazes’ personalities glitches. Problems. Errors.

Foxy never liked those people.

And Foxy knew he was, _technically_ and if you asked anyone who wasn’t Mike Schmidt, an oddity. Strange. Perhaps creepy, if he cocked his head just so, swung his jaw and lumbered with his hook raised.

And if _that_ didn’t work, a good hard and fast jaunt certainly convinced any scallywag that Captain Foxy was capable of holy hellfire and brim-smoke when he had to be. Made said scallywags scatter like spooked chickens in a hen house, in fact. Foxy was always very proud of himself—every now and then, he enjoyed a good prank. He supposed he inherited that from Alex, too.

And so when Scraptrap and his little corpse of a Suit reappeared for the first time—how long had it been? Damn memory—Foxy was confident he would soon be on the hunt again. It was only a matter time, in fact. The lad was a screw up, everyone here knew—save maybe Mike, who would soon learn it.

He was only somewhat disappointed to discover his hunting time was not so, and that Mike, as Mike was apt to do, had taken the brat under his wing. And for some reason this seemed, in some small manner, to get through to Michael Afton. The teenager was not sneaking, not looking around shiftily or like he wanted to escape. He didn’t look happy, certainly not, but he also didn’t look like the slippery, angry eyed Springbonnie that they had first encountered over in the warehouse. Despite being a strange, sickly shade of purple and tinted blue and black, and covered in stitches so much he looked like a patch work quilt; Michael Afton looked like a normal teenager.

More specifically, he looked like the teenager Foxy could just vaguely remember seeing all those years ago.

He growled, tapped his hook thoughtfully to his chin and eyed the purple corpse of a teenager as he shuffled out of Parts and Services.

Immediately, Michael Afton froze.

_“What?”_ He finally demanded, and the fox had to give the lad some credit.

“Ye expected someone else in me metal bones, aye?” Foxy demanded, for he was as direct as their other Captain was.

Michael Afton swallowed. Behind him, Scraptrap halted with a soft noise of confusion and concern, optics locked solely on the young man he nearly ran into. The bunnybot had been right on the heel of the teen’s muddy high tops. When Scraptrap saw where Michael’s tense gaze was aimed, the bunny tossed a warning, narrowed glare of his own over the kid’s shoulder, but made no more outwardly aggressive moves. His ears flicked in dislike, which Foxy understood from being good friends with their purple rabbit all these years, but Foxy ignored that too.

“…fine, I did. Yeah. Can you blame me?” Michael demanded.

_‘Mike’s right. Those two be…close. Closer than they should be. Close as if the Black Devil himself stitched ‘em together.’_ They already had the Suit of Golden Freddy, but Foxy wouldn’t lie that he wasn’t now considering the merits of _two_ healthily bonded Suits on their team. The question wasn’t a matter of power though, it was a matter of loyalties and where they lie.

_‘Let’s see how far gone this bucko is…besides, Alexander would want me to try.’_

“Eh, suppose’ not.” Foxy acquiesced, going for nonchalant. “But Mikey was right about wha’ he told ya earlier. Stories are over, stories are ending, lad.”

“What did he mean by that? Is Alex…? Where did Alex go?” The older brother managed finally, fingers fidgeting at his hip. Foxy eyed the little yellow cassette player hanging off the kid’s belt and hummed in surprise. He hadn’t seen that thing in ages, but the appearance of the little music device kicked some of his files in gear. Indeed, even the sad orange headphones were in their place, hanging from the teen’s discolored neck. They hid a very thick and suspicious set of stitches that smiled creepily around Michael’s throat almost entirely from sight.

The kid really was a walking, talking corpse. Hadn’t Foxy and the others been that, not so long ago? The comparison made the old fox uncomfortable, and he sighed.

“…is he okay, Foxy?” asked Michael Afton, in such a raw and small voice that Foxy’s ears lifted in growing interest. His orange optics slid from the walkman to Michael’s purple gaze.

“Aye.” Foxy said carefully, with a slight nod. “Lad’s…he ain’t at rest, but he’s at ease. He’s safe, and he’s living with his demons. Making up for what he done.”

“But he’s not _with_ you.” Filled in the eldest Afton sibling, and he seemed both comforted and unhappy at this statement. He only seemed to deflate in tired acceptance more when Foxy nodded.

“No, matey. He out grew this old pirate a long time ago.” Foxy hummed. “All kiddos must grow up, matey.”

Behind the kid, Scraptrap made a noise of general unease and uncertainty. He poked the kid in the shoulder, and moved his fingers with strategic creaks and swings, wrist joints whining.

“…h-huh? No—no that’d never happen to us, dude.” Michael assured so quickly he was only being honest and nothing more. No hint of trickery or anger in his gentle tone. “You know I’d never leave you.”

And apparently, Michael’s conversation with Foxy was done. The teen headed past him, only pausing to motion with a hand missing a pinky for Scraptrap to stick close to him. The green and patchy Bonnie model obeyed, tossing only a passing glance at Foxy as the two moved on their way, deeper into the restaurant.

Foxy’s thoughts meandered from Michael Afton to Alex, and from there they slid naturally down the line to the younger members of the Afton clan. Namely, the one who’s Puppet was thought to be dead and _should_ have very much stayed that way. But who hadn’t.

Foxy turned and critically eyed the stage, then wandered up the stairs toward the inactive and silent Lefty. It was just them in the room, and that he was sure of. His slow meander became a prowl as his anger grew the more he stared down the infuriatingly frozen and inactivated bearbot.

“Yer gunna stay, yer gunna work. Now, that Michael Afton…” Foxy frowned, wondering how much he didn’t even have to bother explaining. The thought of the Puppet knowing everything when they didn’t unsettled him. For some reason, it wasn’t talking either. The rest of the gang hadn’t even picked up on its presence once. He brandished his gleaming hook with a warning level and said,

“Ye keep an optic on him. Don’t let him do nuthin’, Mike involved or not, aye? Don’t know what yer up to, ye black devil, but I got a good mind to tell Mike yer lurking around again.”

And unlike the first time he addressed the Freddy-knock off, this time, Foxy received an answer. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t.

Lefty’s one optic slid slowly to its left, rolling over to stare at Foxy.

_‘But you wouldn’t do that, would you Captain?’_ The Puppet’s voice was a whisper-hiss, silky as velvet and twice as strong. _‘You are too afraid of the consequences of revealing me to our dear night guard. I know you, perhaps not as well as Alexander knew you—but well enough.’_

“He ain’t yours no more, Puppet—“ Foxy warned without thinking, only for a black paw to snatch out and clutch his jaw. It clamped shut, and held him fast. Foxy growled and tugged once; raising his hook in warning but holding it when he stared at the mike in the bear’s other clenched paw. Lefty was always holding _a mike._ How _did_ the lad not know yet…?

Before he could say or do anything else, the Puppet was seething down at him from behind Lefty’s slack face.

_‘Michael is still **mine.** He will **always** be mine.’_ The Marionette’s voice darkened as it drew Foxy in close, so close that his muzzle tipped down, his optics nearing the bear’s slack jawed and lifeless head. And then strings threaded out from that wrist, snaring his hook by its curved base and pushing it back and tangling until he couldn’t move it. The strings were usual—thin and glinting like silver spider web arms come to life. But before they attacked they braided together. The Puppet had gotten wiser, learning to strength its strings by doing this. It was most certainly an idea Mike had taught it, and Foxy inwardly sent a tired, if fond, curse to their night guard.

Just beyond the back teeth, Foxy could make out the barest hint of porcelain. It was smudged with dirt and dust. And it was cracked. A tiny white light, not brighter than the farthest star in the night sky, twinkled out at him once or twice from above a streak of faded violet. Foxy allowed himself the smallest of shivers at the color. But that tiny star-light pinprick was strongest when the Puppet was speaking—and even then, Foxy more felt than heard its low murmur of a voice.

_‘And, oh, I can assure you, Foxy. That the Purple Man’s oldest and his little Bonnie will **not** get between me and Michael. **Or** our prey~’ _

Realizing he could perhaps use this moment to his advantage, Foxy allowed himself to be held in place. It was a good way to gauge the Puppet—and Lefty’s—strength. See what they were up against, what he could expect to warn Mike about if he absolutely had to. (For the Puppet was right, unfortunately. He _didn’t_ want the cat out of the bag—erh, the Puppet out of the bear—if it could be helped. A distracted Mike was a liability, and the lad could get hurt. …in more ways than one, if the damned Puppet was only _visiting.)_

But Lefty was solid, that was for sure. And his ragged appearance was most certainly just that; for appearances sake and nothing more. A ruse, a ploy. The Puppet’s mind hadn’t lost its edge over the years wherever it was. The fox’s tail switched to display irritation, but he phrased himself cautiously.

“Then…then the lad did call ye back.” Foxy felt cold, which was strange for many obvious reasons. But he knew the phantom chill of unease when the moment struck him. And right now he was certainly feeling it.

“Called ye back…because of what happened down to him in Circ’s world…?”

_‘Hnn…yes and no.’_

“You an’ yer damn riddles!” Foxy finally growled, then wrenched himself backwards from the black bear’s iron grip. He wriggled his loose jaw and shoved it somewhat back into place. The strings recoiled in a single swift sliver of motion—here and gone.

_‘You should go see our dear night guard—get him to repair your jaw.’_ The Puppet’s voice held its usual razor-edge. _‘You never know when you might need to bite at someone with something other than your feeble words, Foxy.’_

“…and you? Still be right here, aye? Hiding in plain sight?” Foxy watched with a lemon-sour glare as Lefty began to slide mechanically back into his usual stance. He couldn’t tell if it was an act on the Puppet’s part, or because Lefty was that hard to move for the Marionette after his initial knee jerk reaction of grabbing Foxy. It certainly was still following its old rule of going anywhere, it seemed, despite the fact Lefty stayed rooted on stage.

Misdirection. One of the oldest, and easiest tricks in a performer’s book, as far as Foxy was concerned. Show the audience something strange and odd—say, a tattered, worn animatronic who just so happened to be a model their night guard favored—and no one noticed the smaller and more deadly shadow creeping round, the soft slither of strings rustling together like so many snakes sharing secrets, the motions in the corner of your eye in a dark room, when you thought you were alone.

_‘It has worked for me so far.’_ The Marionette admitted with no small hint of smugness. ‘ _I just had to…think outside the box. I feel rather clever actually. Michael would think of something like this, don’t you think?’_

There was a faint, almost musical chime to itself.

And it was then Foxy realized something else. Yes, the Puppet was back. And yes, it was dangerous as ever, how and why didn’t matter when it could pin Foxy in place.

But, no. It wasn’t quite the same Puppet that Foxy and Alex had hidden from all those years. It was the Puppet that they had seen around Mike those last few months before its death. It was the Puppet that followed, conversed, defended, one scared and out-of-his-depth-night guard for whatever reason—a reason that extended slowly beyond providing Goldy with a human Suit so it could protect the pizzeria once more, and free the Fazes from Afton’s family. It was the Puppet that genuinely seemed bonded to Mike Schmidt, as much as the man enjoyed the strange animatronic.

And that affection was going to be the only thing that kept the rest of them functioning. So long as Mike was safe and still himself, the Marionette wouldn’t turn on them.

At least, Foxy sure hoped so.

The Puppet being back really was a Yes and No. More riddles, and Foxy had a feeling the solutions were going to come down on all of them whether he liked it or not. He just hoped none came down too hard on Mike…either of them, now.

* * *

When Mike returned to the Dining Hall, nothing much was out of place. Freddy was in one of the smaller side party rooms, and Bonnie was helping him fix one of the tables they had discovered was so mistakenly screwed together it was a waiting disaster for anyone who expected it to do what it was meant for, such as hold a cup or plate, let alone if a child or adult dared to lean on the thing. And since it was Freddy, Mike knew that meant the old bear would now be assuming they’d gone and screwed up other tables, so he and Bon would be at it for a few hours, flipping and testing tables and correcting any they felt posed a threat to the safety of a kid. Chica and Foxy were in the kitchen, and if Mike’s stomach and nose were in agreement—which they usually were—it was calzone night for dinner and she likely had a two pound meat and cheese calzone in the oven, which—he checked his watch—was only four hours away.

“Day’s nearly come and gone, and Henry hasn’t come back yet…but he said he’d be busy, and couldn’t babysit me. Dunno Marion, that sort of long-distance management seems to be asking for trouble.” As usual, the Puppet did not answer.

Michael Afton and Scraptrap had been lingering around the hall a while ago, that much Mike knew. He had checked Security Puppet out when the poor thing did her hourly check and spotted a new animatronic—in this case Scraptrap—and made such a racket Michael had rushed to calm her and promise they weren’t a threat all over again. SP didn’t seem wholly convinced but she did relax, enough that she settled back into her box, only after eyeing the green-rotted bunnymodel with adorable suspicion and soft bell-tinkles of warning.

But the two weren’t here now, though. Where had they run off to? Somewhere Bonnie hadn’t felt the need to tattle about. Maybe the kitchen. Did corpses eat?

“And, of course, nothing from you, yet.” Mike tossed a disappointed glance up at the silent Lefty the bear. “Guess Henry was right about you after all, huh buddy? You’re harmless, just a little spooky looking.”

Over by the arcade game line up, Candy Cadet sat slumped, innocuous as ever. Mike, hands in pockets and unsure of what else to get into, strutted over and crouched, pushing a few quarters into Cadet’s coin slot.

“I am Candy Ca-det, come get your candy here.” droned Candy Cadet, his colors flashing and twinkling merrily. “I have candy all day, every-day. Candy. Candy. Candy.”

The few pieces rolled out, tumbled into Mike’s palm and the machine buzzed once more.

“Return to Candy Cadet again and ma-ybe I will tell you _a sto-ry?”_

“Yeah, you said that last time, fella.” Mike popped the grape hard candy into his mouth and chuckled. “But if it brings kids back, means more money for us. Erh, and more cavities for them.”

With a shrug, Mike rose and glanced at the long eating benches and blinked.

“Hello—what’s this? That wasn’t there before…”

Mike eyed the tape cassette sitting on the table by Security’s box. It was too old to be just left here, and after a moment he recognized it as the same one he saw Scraptrap remove from his center when he thought Michael wanted it earlier. Music poured from the tinny headphones, which were metal and black and as old as the walkman. The old player purred in his hand, and seemed oddly warm for the normal, plain looking tech it was.

“Huh…” Mike drew closer, common sense being over ridden by his innate curiousness and he scooped the little humming device up. It was playing, and he hit Stop, then unclasped the side and opened it. His eyebrows rose at the tape inside, a copy of _Aerosmith’s_ hits that had yellowed with age. Thinking back to the old van’s cassette player, and the box of tapes Bonnie made him keep for it for all these years, Mike’s confused look melted into something old and sad enough that he felt Gold stir and curl the bulk of his presence around their shared mindspace—a comforting gesture.

“…another piece to the puzzle, huh Mari…”

A soft tinkle of confusion answered him. Mike glanced to his left and spotted SP peeking out at him. She rose out higher and chimed again at him, soft and sweet and even quieter than the Puppet used to speak.

“Sorry. Talking to an old friend.” Mike smiled, “Go back to sleep, sweetie.”

SP vanished back into her box with a rolling chime as if to say, ‘Don’t have to tell me twice!’ and Mike was alone again.

“There’s no way that’s a coincidence—not in this place. So why then…? Why are they so hostile to him…?”

Mike, having snapped the walkman closed, turned the heavy plastic square around in his scarred hand, studying it as if it would spill all of Michael Afton’s secrets, and maybe some of his family’s too. Something out of place caught his trained eye, and it looked like writing. He loosened the belt clip and pulled the piece back just enough to see three stout letters had been written behind the holder.

“M…A…X?” Mike snorted, turning the walkman over to its front as he replaced the belt clip’s turn screw quickly.

“Hey—hey! Please, don’t touch that—!” Michael Afton dived into the man’s space out of nowhere it seemed like, and Mike handed over the tape player with amusement in his friendly gaze.

“Sorry. What’s that on the back? In sharpie?”

“Jeez, dude,” Michael complained, “You ask like, a million questions an hour. You must drive Freddy up a wall.”

“Freddy says he likes my questions.” Mike grinned, “And you didn’t answer me yet.”

“MA, that’s my initials.” Michael Afton’s cheeks had flushed a richer shade of purple, almost black and it took Mike a second to realize what he was seeing. The kid was blushing. Mike’s grin widened, and he paid polite attention to Scraptrap, who was lumbering in from the hall that lead to Parts and Services—so that’s where they’d been for a while. But they’d clearly been out here, otherwise Mike wouldn’t have found the cassette player.

“…so what does the X stand for?”

“Scraptrap can’t spell, but he wanted to sign his name on it, too.” Michael Afton blinked as if just now realizing how strange that seemed, then shrugged. “I dunno, okay? Bonnie models are weirdos sometimes…”

“You don’t have to tell me twice on that.” Mike snorted.

“I _heard_ that, Bambi!” Bonnie’s voice drawled in lazy humor from the side room’s closed door and all, causing Michael Afton to spook briefly and Mike to snicker.

Mike Schmidt studied the young man a beat longer. The walkman was shoved safely into a pocket, the headphones tossed over his neck, and Michael himself tossed a wary look at Mike that made the man soften a bit. In that moment, Mike made a choice.

“Alrighty then, _Max—_ what? This way you know I’m addressing the two of you!—time for your first official shift as a night guard. Are you excited?” Mike asked, clapping his hands together cheerfully.

“Over the moon.” The newly dubbed Max drawled, his tone as dead as he was. Beside him, Scraptrap chuckled under his pipes.

“So…what do we gotta do?”

“What Freddy tells me you used to do, clean the joint.” Mike shrugged. “Place isn’t terribly dirty, but we’re supposed to keep it in prime shape for the opening on Saturday. That’s what your Uncle keeps telling me, anyway.”

As if on cue, Max groaned softly but surprisingly, nodded.

“Faz tell you I used to always listen to music, too?” Max said as he lifted the headphones over his ears. “Cause I’m gunna.”

Mike grinned. “Deal. But maybe you’d like to listen to something _else_ for once?...Ah, hang on,” Mike shed the blue band with a wink and sat it by SP’s box before he strolled for the front door.

“Follow me.”

Max shot the man an odd look, and interestingly, followed Mike out to the van without much complaint. Either the kid trusted him a bit more, or felt he was safer with it just being Mike and Scraptrap, or perhaps, Max was just that enticed at the prospect of changing his tape out for the first time in…well, years, proably.

“These look familiar?” The night guard hummed, tugging out the box from under the bench seat in the back and hauling it over to rest before the dead kid.

“Oh _man_ —how’d you find—yeah! These are mine from—from, from like forever ago,” purple fingers scrambled, pulling out _Zeppelin, the Doors,_ more _Aerosmith_ and even _the Police_ with barely filtered excitement.

“Bonnie kept these.” Mike admitted, watching Scraptrap lumber after them, and grunt in interest at his Suit, who turned to show him the crate. Mike noticed the way both their eyes light up in delight, or the way Scraptrap rustily purred when Max flashed _the Smiths_ at him, and picked up a copy of Echo and the Bunnymen, as if understanding the humor behind him choosing such an artist.

“What, all this time? Why’d he…they look great for their age—“ said Max, unintentionally confirming Mike’s assumption of the yellowed copy of _Aerosmith_ in the walkman on the kid’s hip.

“Well, he played them a lot, too. I always wondered where he picked up his taste in music, since the stuff they play on the stage is definitely kids stuff.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah—it has to be. Kid friendly, I mean. Fredbear and Springbonnie used to play bubblegum pop, yanno, like really sappy, sweet stuff?” it seemed pouring over his old cassettes had loosened the kid’s tongue. He wasn’t looking at Mike as he rambled down at the box, checking on the state of some of the older rough trades—but Bonnie had looked after those, too.

“Fredbear played the piano sometimes, Spring played the guitar,” Max nudged aside _Whitesnake_ to check on the _Blackhearts._ “Springbonnie was built when I was a little kid, and he was always so…dunno, chipper? Like, really sweet. But Bonnie? Even before they could talk, he was always interested in whatever Freddy was up to, and Freddy always hung around me an’ Uncle Henry, and one day he saw heard my music from my walkman, and I guess from there…” as if realizing what he was talking about, Max trailed off. 

“Bonnie’s guitar?” Mike watched Max replace _Springsteen_ and select _Dire Straits_ for a moment. He decided to pretend like he’d only taken interest in the first part of the kid’s words. Scraptrap eyed him but said nothing, merely loomed and smiled when Max handed him some chosen tapes.

“Yeah, it used to be light pink, but Uncle Henry had it recased to ‘rockstar red’ when it went to Bonnie.” Max now held _Foreigner’s_ Double Vision and, after some consideration, snatched a home-recorded tape scrawled in blue pen that read: _Boston_ on one side, and _Huey/News: Sports_ on the other.

“I remember making this one,” Max gave a half smirk when he caught Mike watching him. “…ah, thanks. Look, don’t—don’t tell Bonnie, awright? He’ll prolly flip out…”

“I don’t think he will as much as you think, Max.” Mike answered gently, but he pushed the crate back into place. “I’ll leave the back unlocked—if you want to grab any others, they’re out here for you, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

And so Max, both sides of them, followed Mike Schmidt back into the new and unopened restaurant. And for once, stacking chairs, mopping and vacuuming didn’t seem like such a total chore.

For the first time in over a decade, he had a job, and ‘somewhat’ new music to do it too.

For a moment, the world seemed to relax around the building.

* * *

_Mike stood on the stage, smiling over the crowd of patrons, eating pizza, laughing, talking. The bustling air of a busy restaurant would never not bring him comfort and ease. Sure, it was crowded, sometimes noisy, and kids were always sticky and wild but the air seemed abuzz with an element of electricity of some sort. Mike was a people person, and he loved mechanics but even he knew this wonderful sensation had nothing to do with his robotic, ghostly self and all to do with his own desire to be around people. To feel a sense of community—to know he was, in some small part, responsible for this air of enjoyment and pleasure. To feel the pulse of others excitement, share in their happiness, or their pain. Mike was an empathetic dude, a bit of a live wire, as Freddy often touted out. And he liked that. (He liked it even better than the Fazes understood, and almost always shared this enjoyment of crowds with him—so long as there were more children than adults, that is.)_

_By the time Mike glanced to his right and saw a pair of bobbing golden ears, his entire mood shifted. His posture fell, at least, he thought it did. His arms remained spread and moving, jerking up and down, back and forth. They were heavy, and servos strained with mechanical whines._

_He was dreaming. He had to be. Well, not dreaming. Remembering. _

_‘Gold?’ He muttered, having long ago mastered the art of talking to one’s inner voice and becoming quite reliant on that voice being able to talk back._

_‘YES?’ Rumbled Golden Freddy, who could only talk these days in short bursts, so old and ancient was he._

_‘…what’s…what’s eating you, big fella?’ Mike broached, carefully trying to side step across the stage of Fredbear’s Diner, so that he could see Gold and be himself at the same time. ‘You don’t usually think so loud that I get caught up in it anymore. Kinda worries me when we share these…memories.’_

_‘NOTTA MEMORY, MICHAEL.’ Fredbear’s deep tenor hummed back. The deep voice was calm, even if it was assertive in Mike’s misassumptions._

_‘…what?’ Mike swallowed. ‘But we’re—it has to be! How else--? I fell asleep, didn’t I?’_

_‘YOU DID.’_

_“On the stage at the new restaurant? After I helped Freddy and Bonnie, I ate waay too much calzone and kinda fell into a food coma, right?’_

_A deep chuckle. ‘YOU DID.’_

_“Then that means we’re sharing a memory!’ As few and fleeting as these moments were, they had happened. Mike occasionally even enjoyed them, getting to see the past through Fredbear’s optics. There was only one day he did not enjoy reliving, and that was the birthday for a crying child._

_But a quick check of the scenery reassured Mike that this moment was not that day._

_‘WE’RE NOT.’ Fredbear, now fully separate and standing in his stage, turned down to stare at Mike. One eye socket was pitch black, but the other, the same eye that on Mike’s side was yellow, was blue now. Scars gouged down the golden bear’s suit. The same scars that sat on his outer Suit, on Mike Schmidt himself._

_In his dreams and his other’s memories, Fredbear always looked brand spanking New. This was not normal, and seemed to signal to the clever young man that Something was Amiss, and his Animatronic was correct. Mike gaped, only for a moment, before he noticed the towering bearbot was now looking back out into his diner. _

_Mike’s eyes snapped to the back of the diner, across the small room, to the speckled red and white polished counter. His heart had taken up residence in his throat._

_‘THERE.’ Gold pointed with the paw not holding his mike._

_The Box. The Present Box. Gleaming white, bow so shimmery and crisp it could be heard from here as the top was pushed open. No one was approaching it though. The customers had no faces, the room seemed cast in dark, smothering shadows. The comforting waves of noises died down to a soft din. The world held its breath, and Mike did too._

_It was only Mike, and Gold, and across from them, the Marionette._

_‘Come here, night guard.’ Purred a voice from that strange little puppet creature. It’s black, spider-leg finger crooked at him._

_‘It’s been so long.’_

_Had the Puppet done it to anyone else, they likely would have fled in terror. Mike did not. Mike bolted, practically fell off the shallow stage and beelined for the original and old Prize Counter. Unlike the nightmares where he could never reach the Puppet calling to him, Mike made it._

_Fredbear stayed behind, rooted in place as he always had been. He was there, though, in the moment. Mike knew he and Gold were never apart anymore. It was a comforting weight, like a heavy blanket or a thick jacket._

_‘Mari!?’ Mike’s voice nearly cracked at the end, the quiver in his tone falling out of his lean frame as he nearly collided with the counter and Present Box. The Puppet chimed at him in obvious amusement, leaning closer with a warm crinkle of its black eyes._

_‘I can’t believe it!” Mike cried, “After all this time—you—how are you—!?’_

_‘You’ve been opening doors, dear night guard.’ The Puppet cut in, voice smooth and gentle as glass. ‘I thought I warned you enough about doing that.’_

_‘H-huh? I haven’t been—’ Mike tensed, trying to think through his distraction, his euphoria and overwhelmed heart. ‘Unless you mean…down in Pizza World?”_

_Mike bite his lip then immediately let it go, afraid that the pain and pressure would shatter his dreamscape and force him out of this wonderful reunion._

_‘So you’re…are you here-here? Or just…just the result of my stressed out subconscious trying to alleviate the guilt?’_

_‘Always so critical, aren’t we?’ The Puppet chimed faintly, but stopped when Mike didn’t share its laughter. Its music box wound in slow, contemplative thought, and its spindly fingers tapped idly against the side of its box, the noise familiar and welcoming. The Puppet was always thinking, after all. _

_‘So what if I am just a figment of your mind? Just a daydream? I would still be just as honored, to be considered so highly that you remember me in such perfect detail.’_

_‘B-but then—’_

_‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’ Marion advised heavily with a gentle bow of its porcelain face._

_‘I...I guess you’re right…that’s all I can do.’ That seemed answer enough. When Mike woke up, when the dream ended, so would this. He would wake up in a world of unknowns, with danger lurking and danger coming, and the Puppet would be miles away back in Hurricane—dead and buried._

_Mike didn’t want to wake up, but he kept that thought to himself, not even sharing it with Gold. The big old ghost lingered right behind him, both in his dream and metaphorically._

_‘Michael, if you don’t mind me saying…for the Suit of Golden Freddy, you seem so empty as of late.’ The Puppet murmured in soft concern._

_‘Why is that, do you think?’_

_And there it was. Of course any dream version of Marion would sniff out his problems, his angst, and get right to the point. Mike sighed._

_‘I fucked up Mari, I’m so sorry—‘ the words broke from his lips and he trembled, gripping the counter as he leaned in, close enough to see the different colors in Marion’s star-light optics. They seemed...duller, than Mike remembered. Or maybe he was remembering incorrectly. He couldn’t be sure, and somehow, right now, he didn’t care._

_‘I let her escape. I went down there, to Pizza World, I knew something was wrong, but I thought it’d be okay. I thought I could do what she needed.’ Mike gasped out finally, feeling like he only had a set amount of time to say his peace. ‘Circus Baby—Henrietta—she’s…out now. She lied to me.’_

_‘Arthur’s sister.’ The Puppet mused, and if it was surprised by Mike’s failure, it didn’t show it. Not that much emotion showed at all on that painted face, but if you knew where to look—namely, the Puppet’s eyes, which could move just a bit—you could see where the Puppet was thinking. Figuring things out._

_‘Y-yeah. I never meant for that to happen, I thought I could handle her—handle them, I wanted to s-save them.’_

_‘Like you saved the original four.’ A pause. ‘Like you thought you’d saved Springbonnie.’ _

_Mike’s voice would not come anymore, but he nodded, throat painfully tight._

_‘Why do you cry?’ The Puppet finally asked, and Mike shivered when he felt the side of a black finger brush away a few tears that had leaked down his cheek._

_‘B-because—’ Mike gave a choking noise of distraught disbelief. ‘Because you’re gone, and I can’t ask you for help anymore? Because now, now Michael Afton is back and he’s a Suit just like me, and could hurt us if he wanted to? Because I’m hurt!? And scared!? And I don’t know if I can do this, Mari. I don’t feel like a night guard anymore.’_

_‘Fear is natural. It is about what you do with your fear that makes you human.’ Answered the Marionette._

_‘Maybe I don’t feel human, then.’ Mike groused back, but his tone had no edge. He sank further on his arms, head bowed and body screaming the slow descent of defeat and exhaustion._

_A second later, that curled finger came back, this time under his chin. The Puppet lifted Mike’s head up, tipping it back so that it could look directly into Mike’s two toned eyes._

_‘Oh, Michael.’_

_Mike stared back at the Marionette, helpless and unsure._

_‘All that you are is enough, my dear night guard.’ The Puppet’s face was just barely visible now, and Mike noticed suddenly that it was deeply, irreparably cracked in two, but held together by some force nonetheless._

_‘If it wasn’t, I could never have made you a Suit in the first place.’ A black hand passed over his eyes, startling him and Gold into what honestly felt to Mike like a simple, short circuit. A reset._

And like that, Mike woke up.

His eyes adjusted as well as they could in the darkened restaurant. Behind him, solid and warm, was stout fur that he knew as well as his own skin. He relaxed almost instantly, mind sleepy and befuddled. It was mostly silence, save for Foxy’s inner workings near his left somewhere, back on the stage. Bonnie wasn’t even playing music, and Chica was silent in her kitchen. Max and his bunny were somewhere apparently not getting into trouble, because Helpy nor Bon had come to tattle. SP’s box was still, and silent, but he thought he could hear her moving around. If Freddy knew he was awake, the old bear made no move to bother him, so maybe he was dozing too. His watch blinked to 3:03am, and Mike made no move to get up, only check it to confirm his suspicion.

But he was left wondering, as he lied there against Freddy’s comforting and patient frame, arms folded behind his head and gazing at the dark ceiling. And Mike wondered a lot of things—but mostly, he wondered why the Marion in his dream would have such an utterly fractured alabaster face…

When he remembered burying the Puppet with only a crack splitting down it, and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike wants answers, Max wants to be left alone, and SP wants sleep. Same lil gal, same. Also Max and I share tastes in music lmao, 100%. I mean I like /every/ type of music but those are the sorts of bands my uncle and my dad introduced me to, so they have a special place in my heart.


	7. A Sleep Like Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s my birthday~

“I dare you all to go into  
the Haunted House on Howlin’ Hill  
where squiggly things with yellow eyes  
peek past the wormy window sill..” – _Haunted,_ Shel Silverstien

* * *

**Act II  
Chapter 7. A Sleep Like Death**

The newly dubbed Max Afton stepped back, eyeing the entirety of the grand, large room he had spent the last several hours mopping. The table cloths were out of the way, the chairs lifted with their many legs branched upward. The floor gleamed, and with the heavy and healthy dose of wax, would only need one more swipe before opening day. Not bad work for a dead kid, if he said so himself!

He tugged off his little orange headphones, exhaling a mimic of breath but relaxing his shoulders in relief.

“What do you think, man?” Max asked cheerfully as he heard Scraptrap lurch up behind him.

“Whadd’ya want, a darn’ medal? Fer moppin’ the floor?” that unmistakable deep country tenor demanded of him, and Max would not be proud to say he squeaked. He skidded a few steps to the side, whirling in spot to stare up at Freddy Fazbear himself.

“F-Freddy!”

Freddy’s look was icy, those blue glass optics just about the exact opposite Mike’s gaze seemed to be. He hadn’t a clue why Schmidt seemed to like him, or at the very least tolerate him. Freddy sure didn’t, and it was clear Freddy was Mike’s favorite.

…so why hadn’t the possessive bear told him off yet? Why hadn’t he told Mike all about their tangled up, rotted history?

Max’s nervous purple fingers fumbled over the walkman at his hip. It was still on, and quickly he paused it. The tape halted, and Max realized he was still being stared at like the only deer in the herd with a limp. He fought a shiver.

“Uh—nothing. Nevermind.” Brittle, irritated anger curdled in his hollow chest. He swallowed, and tried not to get angry. Getting angry would only prove Freddy right. And prove Mike wrong, and Mike had been kind enough to take them in.

…give him his music back…

Focus, he could do this!

“Job’s done. You can tell Mike.” Max grabbed the bucket and mop and hurried for the cleaning room.

And then, because perhaps he had been stapled together to a Bonnie model for far too long, he pitched over his shoulder,

“You’re _welcome.”_ And quickly hurried before Freddy could register the raw, unashamed teenage snark in his hurt tone.

Freddy Fazbear stayed where he was, glaring at nothing in particular when movement caught his eye.

“Michael told you to watch after that little nuisance.” Freddy growled down at Helpy, who had frozen with a small shred of common sense. “Now git!”

Helpy, for his part, scattered after the dead teenager.

Freddy growled, rubbed his face tiredly, and strode toward the kitchens.

It was going to be One of Those Days. He could feel it.

* * *

“What the heck happened to you, Captain!?” Mike exclaimed when he saw Foxy’s loose jaw.

“…nuthin’ lad, just got loose again. Didn’t come to ya when I should’ve, that’s all.” Which wasn’t entirely unlike Foxy, to be honest. Mike shot him a look but closed the distance on long legs, inspecting the animatronic for himself with gentle, memory-moving hands.

“Yeah?” Mike didn’t look terribly convinced, but he dug out his favorite screw driver anyway and leaned under the old fox’s chin, propping the metal jaw up into place as he went to work.

“Gimmie a second,” Mike hummed, “There, how’s that feel?”

“Perfect, matey. My thanks to ya,” and while Foxy almost always thanked him, this time seemed…different. A little softer.

“Everything okay, buddy?” Mike’s hand ran a few comforting strokes up and down the top of that pale pink puzzle, thumb catching the little black bumps of Foxy’s six matching freckle-spots. “I know it’s been a couple long days but, soon enough it’ll be Saturday, and we can do the opening, get paid and get outta dodge.”

“Be a shame to leave this ship, wouldn’t it?” Foxy seemed more than willing to keep the subject on the restaurant, and Mike shrugged.

“Sure, yeah, but it’s…been made pretty clear we’re only guests, huh?” Mike’s smile turned bittersweet, “The Rockstars alone…”

“They sound remarkable, from what ah’heard. And that rough lookin’ fellow over there? Think he belongs in a place like this?”

“Huh?” Mike’s gaze flitted toward the stage where Foxy’s cruel hook was gesturing. “Lefty? Well—“ Mike chuckled, “I can’t really judge him can I? I let _you_ perform back when we still had a restaurant.”

“Aye, that ye did.” Foxy sounded and looked disappointed for a moment, only for the expression to smooth away, as if the old captain had come to some inner decision.

“Besides,” Mike shoved his screw driver away into his jacket pocket. The cracked leather jacket had reminded Mike of Freddy, he had teased, and he had been wearing it ever since. Even better, it hid a multitude of scaring on his arm and hand from his adventures. “Henry wanted Lefty up there. Your guess is as good as mine why, but I get the feeling he has a soft spot for Freddy models like me.”

“Just…stay sharp, lad. Ah too ain’t fond of this place. It’s so… _welcomin’._ Fake-friendly-like.”

“A weird critique but I’ll take your word for it anyway, Captain.” Mike grinned, patting the fox’s shoulder.

“See that you do, lad. Ole Foxy ain’t talkin’ just to entertain the fish.” And with that, Foxy wandered to wherever he was headed.

Mike tossed a proprietary glance over the main room. He checked his watch—not near the hour, which meant SP wasn’t coming out of her box unless and until he took his blue band over a threshold out of the joint. Having no desire to do that, and not willing to force the timid little thing out of her comfort zone unless there was an emergency he needed her for, he wandered toward one of the walls where the arcade games sat.

Mike studied Candy Cadet, then shook his head. Nah. Maybe later.

“Let’s see…here we are,” Mike stopped before _Midnight Motorist,_ eyeing the squat machine with a critical eye. The strange game was wider than it was long, with a big, shiny screen. Two red buttons and a joystick were the controls, but there were four sets of them.

“…erh…racing game, huh?” Mike guessed, fingers tapping the Crying Child’s flashlight in thought. “Okay. Test one. Solo first I guess, then we’ll try the multiplayer…” his smile faded.

“Wish you were here to test ‘em out with me, Marion. You’d love some of these…” Honestly, Mike just wanted to see the Puppet interact with a ball pit for the first time in his life.

One quarter later, and the game was loaded.

“Kinda vintage graphics for all the tech we got in here,” Mike mused to himself as he played the first round.

Lap one through three passed without incident. On Lap four, however, Mike’s sharp gaze caught something at the bottom of the screen.

“Shit, dead pixels?” But he had been going too fast, and a second later he won the game.

“Dammit,” he mumbled, ducking to jam another quarter into the slot. He mumbled a running commentary, committing his notes to Gold’s ever-listening computer brain. Being part machine meant total recall, and _that_ came in handy. “Third lap, possible glitch, let’s see…”

This time, knowing what to look for, Mike kept his eyes trained on the bottom of the road track. One…two…nothing. Wondering how far the problem went into the system, he moved his racer against the black separation after clearing lap three. If the little racer kept on his way, and the game could still be completed even with interacting with the glitch, all the better. It would just be ‘one of those quirks,’ and Mike wouldn’t have to open the arcade machine and go digging around in its hardware and or software.

Lap four. The break was coming soon. Sooner…

If this altered the game, though, and affected a kid’s ability to enjoy said game…

“…annd, yep. Just my luck.” Mike sighed as the screen flickered to black. He leaned on the edge with one elbow, huffing in disappointment for a second.

And then the game powered back on.

Mike’s expression smoothed to open intrigue, his eyes widening as he straightened up.

“…uh?” 

Little pixel trees, black background and a grey road. Mike’s car, at least he presumed it was his, was now at a different angle with more detail than before. Little pixel rain crossed the screen. Twin headlights were on. The car had a windshield and all.

Raising one eyebrow, Mike moved his joystick.

The little car went down on command.

“Erh…” Well! This seemed…less kid friendly than before. Underneath his skin, Golden Freddy prickled. Mike felt a shiver creep down between his shoulderblades.

He was sure it was nothing. Maybe a cool Easter Egg for kids to find…though a pretty damn obvious one at that.

Mike swallowed, but leaned closer to the screen. Moving the strange car down the road was taking up his concentration. Then more of it. Soon, he wasn’t quite aware of anything around him anymore. Even Gold’s urgency, his protective sense of warning, seemed faded and far away, like something had numbed his mind and senses. All that mattered was getting that little car to where it needed to go, but where that was and how long it would take weren’t concerns to Mike anymore.

Just had to do it. Keep playing. Down. Down. Left. Right. Little to the left again…stay on the road. Stay on the road.

Stay.

Over on the table, little Security Puppet did her hourly check. When she spotted the blue band wearer slouched so oddly and not responding to her friendly chimes of recognition, she hesitated. He was wearing her blue band, wasn’t he? Well, then she would like an answer from him, please! Right now! She had to check up on him!

Security Puppet gave a puzzled trill, and ventured from her box.

Three tiny black fingers were maybe two inches from touching Mike’s shoulder when a warning chime startled her.

SP drew back, instinctively flinching despite the owner of that music box having not once left the confines of the black bear that was still leaning tiredly on stage. She glanced doubtfully to make sure, but no. There Lefty the bear stood. Even his one optic was rolled downward lifelessly, not making contact with her.

Her bell twinkled softly, and she floated around instead to peer at Mike from the side. His normally expressive, friendly face was stony and blank. His sharp eyes were glazed and glossy. He made no reaction to the small puppet in his space, and though she floated closer than she usually dared, she made no move to touch him again. She lapsed into unhappy silence, lingering close by in hopes she would, at some point, be allowed to rouse the night guard from his odd, controlled trance.

_“Forgive me, my dear night guard. But you did want answers.” _

_Midnight Motorist’s_ game music drawled on, eerier and lower than before. Mike’s watched had stopped moving. The world held its breath.

* * *

_“C’mon, you can’t be here. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”_

So he returned to the car, wobbly, vision-hazed, body feeling light and heavy at the same time. And he drove.

That was a bad idea.

At least _Mike_ thought it was. But this body he was in didn’t seem to give a flying fuck what _he_ thought, and even though he was seeing and hearing everything, he wasn’t quite sure he was doing anything anymore. He wasn’t the one in control. This was something he was used to, but his yellow bear was never like this. Speaking of...hadn’t that yellow fellow been trying to tell him something earlier? What was its name again? Strange.

Hadn’t he, Mike Schmidt, been doing something before this…? Playing something? A button? A quarter.

No. no, nothing. There was just this. Driving. Rain slicked windshield, road that wouldn’t seem to stay straight and kept swerving off under his tires.

It _was_ the road, wasn’t it? Yes. Had to be. No use for it.

Road was getting thinner. Then—no, driveway. It was a driveway, yes. That was it. He was home.

_Be it ever so humble._ Mike thought quietly.

He got out. Headed for the blue house.

Mike pushed open the door, hand straying along the woodgrain, fingers slipping lazily as he staggered into the dark room. Living room, he knew without asking, saw without a light. Oh, no. There was light, wasn’t there? Off to the right. Flickering. Warm, blue and familiar. Watching tv at night was fun, when it wasn’t a screen where sometimes you saw a fox getting ready to bolt at you—fox, what was the fox’s name? Foxes chased chickens, not people.

_The fox’d never hurt ch—chi…the chicken, though._ Mike frowned, puzzled beyond belief.

What was he thinking? Hnn. Didn’t matter. Not done yet, Schmidt. Afton. Either of you.

He staggered deeper into the living room. Made a step toward the easy chair, eying the mop of hair just peeking over the cushy thing. He recognized that little unkempt bundle of dark brown hair, and Mike smiled. Here was a friend! Thought he had never seen the kid anything other than see-through, and he didn’t see the strings that connected him to the—

_‘Leave him alone tonight. He had a rough day.’_

Didn’t they all? Mike stood still, staring. Swaying. He still felt lighter, but less so. More…sober. Emotions petered in. Emotions he thought were better left kept out of him.

Er, someone’s emotions, anyway.

The emotions went from vacant and watered-down, erh, liquored-down, to louder. More insistent. He lurched forward.

Hallway. Worn carpet. Closed door.

….why was the door closed? The door shouldn’t be closed. Not-Mike’s mind insisted with a hiss of rising irritation. It made Mike angry too, though he didn’t know why. The hell did a closed door matter—

And then he was just before it, knocking a fist onto it. Heavy, mean, and forceful.

_“I told you not to close your door!”_

Knock-knock!

Nothing.

_Weird._ Mike thought, mind still hazy and awash under the drunkness of Whoever-This-Was. He wobbled backwards, grumbling like a bear.

_“This is MY house. He can’t ignore me like that!”_

_Damn right._ Mike thought, then frowned. No, this didn’t seem right. None of this seemed right.

**_“OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”_ **

They were walking again. Heading for the door in the kitchen, the door they had entered.

_“I’ll find a way in from outside…”_

_Okay._ Mike thought tiredly. _Out we go, I guess._

Outside, it was still raining. Pouring, even. The night was thick and foggy, and the all around them crickets and peppers sang their songs. The ground was soft, and spongy from the heavy, steady rain they were dealing with. Mike’s boots squelched and slid. Mostly, his body and inebriated state was the cause of it. If he were sober—and actually Mike—he had a feeling this whole walking thing wouldn’t be such a damn issue.

Round back, they headed. Slow going, but assured. They’d done this before.

The window was broken. The damn window was broken!

_Why not?_ Mike wondered. _When you lock a kid in his room, even lock the windows, how else was he going to get out? _

There was no glass outside, under the window. Mike stared, wondering then, in his clever Mike way, _who_ had broken the kid _out._ He had a feeling he knew, that this piece of the puzzle was presented to him before.

Footprints, however, were under the sill. They were scuffled and sloppy, but easy enough to trail.

The foot prints split eventually, into wide, flat paws. The other sneaker prints stayed intact, but were deeper. The huge and familiar paw prints followed.

Running.

_“Ran off to that place again. He will be sorry when he gets back.”_

_And you?_ Mike thought. _You will be sorry in the morning. God, my head fuckin hurts. How much did you drink? …I wish Freddy were here._

He forced his heavy eyes to look up, up into the night sky. Too cloudy, no stars.

So why were the stars spinning?

All two of them?

_…Freddy?_ Why did that name seem so important? Familiar. Warm. Freddy. He…had to get back to…had to wake up…

“Son? _Son!”_ the voice sounded scared, but Mike didn’t know why, and couldn’t quite place where it was coming from.

Mike swayed, head tipping back. The stars were still rolling, ignorant of his nausea and his distress, but he reached up for them nonetheless. He couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—

His hand stretched out, staring at his right hand as it reached so uselessly for the sky and the two drunken fireflies—

_Where are my scars?_ Mike questioned. _Or my watch?_

The world went black, black as the devil.

_‘Interesting. You weren’t supposed to wake up yet, dear night guard. How did you manage to remember his name—? Well, no matter. Can’t be helped. Go on. Back to your favorite, I suppose._

_Everything will be alright, Michael. One way…or another.’_

* * *

Mike opened his eyes as his palm pressed against stout fur, and he blinked stupidly.

Above him, holding him securely in his lap with a thick arm round his frame, and the other paw shaking his shoulder, Freddy Fazbear stared into his two-toned eyes.

“Heey,” Mike slurred, unaware of what to say besides starting with the obvious. “Whass’amatter, big guy?”

_“Son.”_ Freddy grinded from his acrylic teeth, his grip tightening just so. “Blazes, don’t you scare me like that!”

Mike knew this mode; this was ‘Spooked Protective Freddy’ mode, as Mike called it. It wasn’t good, and it had been a while since he’d seen Freddy this shaken up over him. Maybe since Pizza World at least…

“I’m okay,” Mike grinned, and let his hand flop off the poor bear’s face. Freddy grumbled down at him, but Mike’s weak grin widened. Where were they? Oh, he could see a little bit of Lefty, and a lot of the stage’s rich, velvet bright curtains. Stage. Pretty far from the arcade line up on the right side of the dining hall, then.

Freddy had gotten him away from the game and then he’d woken up, but how long had it all taken? Had it taken any time at all? Mike’s head swam.

“Honest, I’m good.” it felt like he needed reassurance as much as his best friend did. “I just, uh...had a vision?”

“Great, we’re here three days and Mike’s having visions and fainting on the main floor.” Bonnie snapped in concern from somewhere to Mike’s left. The night guard snorted and turned to look at his family.

“Take it easy, laddie, ya set us all off when we came in to find ya flopped over like a dead fish on the deck!” Foxy lamented with a scolding switch of his ragged tail. Helpy nodded from where he was, but patted his leg when it swung into reach.

“Here, sweetie,” Chica offered a glass of cool water instead of criticism on his unconscious pose, and Mike took the cup and downed it gratefully.

“Alright, alright.” Mike sat up, wincing as he rubbed his shoulder. Had he passed out? Must’ve. And hit said wounded shoulder on _Midnight—_ wait!

“The game! That’s what did it!” Mike gasped, swaying dangerously when the events came rushing back to him. “The game we just placed, over there!”

“Aye, lad?” Foxy drawled. “…if it’s got them flashing lights, it ain’t safe fer no kids…”

“We should unplug it and tell Henry.” Chica agreed quickly.

“Yeah, but Mike’s _never_ had seizures to light shows before, not even when his right eye went all screwy.” Bonnie reminded with interest lacing his young tone. “That’s kind of Foxy’s thing.”

“True,” Freddy’s troubled look got more severe. Mike stood, waving them all off, but he let a brown paw steady him from behind when he wobbled a fraction of a second too long.

“No, no! I mean—yes, okay, we should _definitely_ unplug and move it the heck out of here. But not because it causes seizures! There’s a glitch on level 4, lap 4, I mean!” Mike flailed his hands to puncture his point. “It triggered this…scene? I guess? To play. Only I wasn’t playing it, guys, I was living it, I was there!”

“You were _living_. In…in the game?” That was Max, who was behind everyone and eyeing Freddy warily, but he and Scraptrap both looked bewildered and concerned at Mike’s state and words.

“…ya _only_ put water in his glass, right, sis?” Bonnie demanded of Chica after a beat, who rolled her pretty optics but nodded.

“Does this sort of thing happen to Mike a lot?” Max finally asked, bewildered.

“I’d lie and say no, but I think my ears might grow.” Bonnie gripped with fond exhaustion, shaking his head at their night guard.

“Lad’s sensitive.” Foxy defended, then groaned. “Sound like onna’ them difficult parents, don’t I, chef…”

“You do.” Chica and Cakey giggled. “But you’re right. And whatever Mike saw _must_ have had a purpose. He wasn’t shown it on accident, not in this place.”

“I think you’re right, Chica.” Mike relaxed, realizing they were listening to him finally. “And I think I need to play it again…”

Freddy, for a long moment, said and did nothing. Finally he stood—Max shifted back behind Foxy’s shoulder—and strode toward the arcade games with a march of aggression and fury.

“…uh, Freddy?”

“Oh, he’s pissed.” Bon mumbled, half to Foxy, half to Max as if in gentle warning.

“Freddy!” Mike groaned and hurried after the bearbot. “Freddy, _stop,”_

But the bear wouldn’t have it. Mike deflated, and it was his turn to grouse as Freddy wrenched _Midnight Motorist_ from its power strip and hauled the arcade game out of place so it could be picked up easier.

“You’re not doing this, son.” Freddy commanded. “Not again. I’ve had enough of this place.”

“But I think I saw—“

“I don’t care **what** you think you saw, or what you didn’t think you saw, or felt, or— **NUTHIN’!”** roared the lead animatronic.

And this time, even Mike winced back, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up as Freddy rounded on him and slammed his fist down so hard _Midnight Motorist_ rattled feebly. If the game wasn’t busted from Mike’s play through, it sure as hell had a few issues now.

Mike gazed at those black and white pinpricks for a long moment, realizing _those_ had been the stars he saw. Freddy hadn’t been worried, he’d been _incensed_ over it. Almost unable to process. Horrified to the point of mindless rage.

“…okay, Freddy.” Mike said softly to the quiet, still air of the shocked still restaurant. He held his hands out, and took a step with a gentle, placating flex of his fingers. “I won’t play the game again. I _promise.”_

Finally, Freddy began to relax.

Mike sighed, and kept his disappointment stifled.

“…but I still have to check the other games out—ah! Stop with the growlie-bear noises!” Mike heard the noises start from Freddy’s deep chest, the noise more machine than animal. He waved a finger and shook his head, not budging on this and not seeing the stunned jaw drop of Max Afton behind him. “Henry’s orders, honest! I’ll only play them if you or one of the gang is nearby, though. The minute something—IF anything that is—goes south, you snap me out of it. Alright? _Deal?”_

Fazbear eyed him, then the gang over his shoulder, then back down at the hopeful and tentative Mike. He made the fatal mistake of looking into those puppy dog eyes and rolled his own up tiredly, puffing in fatigued recognition.

“…tch. Deal.” Freddy scowled before shaking his head tiredly. “Bonnie!” He barked.

“Yo!”

“Get the blasted dolly,” Freddy pointed with a paw, “Help me get this cursed thing outta here…”

“One trip back to the old warehouse across the way, comin’ right up!” Even in the face of Faz’s still smoldering anger, Bonnie seemed unabashedly chill and pleasant. It helped the rest of the gang relax—even poor Max, who slunk toward Mike’s side the second Freddy was more focused on removing _Midnight Motorist_ than he was looking after Mike like some great big mother hen.

“…so…” and then Max trailed off, shifting back and forth on his old high tops. Mike glanced down at them, then at Scraptrap’s wide, flat paws that were his feet. Unlike the rotted and rusted Springtrap, Scrap’s were mostly intact and distinguishable as his outer suit.

All at once, Mike seemed to deflate.

“Max…I’m…sorry…” he weighed his words. Apologies seemed cheap. And he felt bad dredging up the past but… “He…he used to lock you up, didn’t he?”

The look on the eldest Afton sibling’s face said everything, and then some.

“How did you…know…that?” But Max, the clever kid, let his inhuman purple gaze flicker toward the now moving arcade game. He swallowed, fists clenched at his sides.

“Sometimes. Yeah. He did.” Max gritted out, quiet and careful of his words. “When you make a Suit, Mike, the whole idea is to keep them together. Not separate. Right?”

“…right?” Mike managed uneasily. Did Max know about him and Gold? He was sure not. He was afraid if Max knew it would color their interactions. He didn’t want the kid to hate him, or worse, fear him.

“Foxy and Alex didn’t separate. The freakin’ Puppet and Artie, yeah, no way. But, me?” Max’s thin lipped smile turned ice cold and bitter. “Dad made a mistake. He made me. He made us.”

The purple teen gestured with a four fingered hand at him and his looming bunny, who thrummed softly in comfort down at his other half.

“And when we were a problem, well, the only way to control us was to keep us apart.”

“You’d break out to be with your…” Mike eyed the bunny, humming in thought. “To be with your best friend.”

“Wull, yeah. I mean.” Max shrugged. “What else could I do? The only reason I’m worth anything is because of Scraptrap. It’s because of him. Without him…?”

Max laughed, but it’s dead as cemetery wind. “I’m just the killer’s son, Mike.”

“You’re more than what you think, Max.” The night guard reached out, laying an assured hand on the teen’s shoulder. “You both are.”

Max was silent for a long, long while.

And when he finally opened his mouth to speak, the door behind them burst open with such a crash poor SP pushed open her box and chimed in fright.

“Mike!” it was Bonnie, ears upright and pink eyes wide. “We found one!”

Mike froze, hand rising from Max’s shoulder as anxiety and adrenaline flooded his system.

“Out—out back!?” Mike demanded.

Bonnie nodded, then grinned, his optics darkening in vicious glee.

“And you’ll never guess who our first fly in the web is~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My birthday gift to yall is to leave you with a humdinger of a cliffhangar XD Sorry! (Or am I…)

**Author's Note:**

> And we’re off~ It’s nice to get running with Mike and the gang again, although Mike himself might want a minute for rebuttal. I’m thinking of updating once every two weeks, so I’ll see on December 18th, dear reader~ 
> 
> You can find my rough designs for Michael and Scrap on my tumblr under this tag, as well as the teaser posters for Last Shift ;) https://charlieslowartsies.tumblr.com/tagged/fnaf


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